UC-NRLF 


B    3    ^b^    033 


^ 


a 


THE   NOVELS   OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 


THE    NOVELS    OF 

IVAN    TURGENEV 


I.    RUDIN. 
11.    A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK, 
in.    ON  THE  EVE. 
IV.    FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 
V.    SMOKE. 
VI.  &  VII.   VIRGIN  SOIL.      2  vols. 
VIII. &  IX.   A  SPORTSMAN'S  SKETCHES.    2V0ls. 
X.    DREAM  TALES  AND  PROSE  POEMS. 
XI.   THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING,  ETC. 
XII.   A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES. 

XIII.  THE   DIARY   OF    A    SUPERFLUOUS 

MAN,  ETC. 

XIV.  A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER,  ETC. 
XV.   THE  JEW,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MAC^HLLAN  COMVA'SY 
LONDON:   WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 


THE  NOVELS  OF  IVAN  TURGENEV 

THE    JEW 

ETC. 

TRANSLATED  FROM   THE  RUSSIAN 

By 

CONSTANCE   GARNETT 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:    WILLIAM    IIEINKMANN 

MCMXX 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


MAIN  LIBRARY 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

STEPNIAK 

WHOSE  LOVE  OF  TURGENEV 

SUGGESTED 

THIS  TRANSLATION 


^  O  »7  O  /w  iy 


INTRODUCTION 

In  studj'inf^  the  Russian  novel  it  is  amusing  to 
note  the  childish  attitude  of  certain  English 
men  of  letters  to  the  novel  in  general,  their 
depreciation  of  its  influence  and  of  the  public's 
'inordinate'  love  of  fiction.  Many  men  of 
letters  to-day  look  on  the  novel  as  a  mere 
story-book,  as  a  series  of  light-coloured,  amus- 
ing pictures  for  their  '  idle  hours,'  and  on 
memoirs,  biographies,  histories,  criticism,  and 
poetry  as  the  age's  serious  contribution  to 
literature.  Whereas  the  reverse  is  the  case. 
The  most  serious  and  significant  of  all  literary 
forms  the  modern  world  has  evolved  is  the 
novel  ;  and  brought  to  its  highest  development, 
the  novel  shares  with  poetry  to-day  the  honour 
of  being  the  supreme  instrument  of  the  great 
artist's  literary  skill. 

To  survey  the  field  of  the  novel  as  a  mere 
pleasure-garden   marked    out   for   the   crowd's 
diversion — a  field  of  recreation  adorned  here 
ix 


INTRODUCTION 

and  there  by  the  masterpieces  of  a  few  great 
men — argues  in  the  modern  critic  either  an 
academical  attitude  to  literature  and  life,  or  a 
one-eyed  obtuseness,  or  merely  the  usual  insensi- 
tive taste.  The  drama  in  all  but  two  countries 
has  been  willy-nilly  abandoned  by  artists  as  a 
coarse  playground  for  the  great  public's  romps 
and  frolics,  but  the  novel  can  be  preserved 
exactly  so  long  as  the  critics  understand  that 
to  exercise  a  delicate  art  is  the  one  serious  duty 
of  the  artistic  life.  It  is  no  more  an  argument 
against  the  vital  significance  of  the  novel  that 
tens  of  thousands  of  people — that  everybody, 
in  fact — should  to-day  essay  that  form  of  art, 
than  it  is  an  argument  against  poetry  that  for 
all  the  centuries  droves  and  flocks  of  versifiers 
and  scribblers  and  rhymesters  have  succeeded 
in  making  the  name  of  poet  a  little  foolish  in 
worldly  eyes.  The  true  function  of  poetry ! 
That  can  only  be  vindicated  in  common  opinion 
by  the  severity  and  enthusiasm  of  critics  in 
stripping  bare  the  false,  and  in  hailing  as  the 
true  all  that  is  animated  by  the  living  breath 
of  beauty.  The  true  function  of  the  novel ! 
That  can  only  be  supported  by  those  who 
understand  that  the   adequate   representation 


INTRODUCTION 

and  criticism  of  human  life  would  be  impos- 
sible for  modern  men  were  the  novel  to  go  the 
way  of  the  drama,  and  be  abandoned  to  the 
mass  of  vulgar  standards.  That  the  novel  is 
the  most  insidious  means  of  mirroring  human 
society  Cervantes  in  his  great  classic  revealed 
to  seventeenth-century  Europe.  Richardson 
and  Fielding  and  Sterne  in  their  turn,  as 
great  realists  and  impressionists,  proved  to  the 
eighteenth  century  that  the  novel  is  as  flexible 
as  life  itself.  And  from  their  days  to  the  days 
of  Henry  James  the  form  of  the  novel  has 
been  adapted  by  European  genius  to  the  exact 
needs,  outlook,  and  attitude  to  life  of  each 
successive  generation.  To  the  French,  espe- 
cially to  Flaubert  and  Maupassant,  must  be 
given  the  credit  of  so  perfecting  the  novel's 
technique  that  it  has  become  the  great  means 
of  cosmopolitan  culture.  It  was,  however, 
reserved  for  the  youngest  of  European  litera- 
tures, for  the  Russian  school,  to  raise  the  novel 
to  being  the  absolute  and  triumphant  ex- 
pression by  the  national  genius  of  the  national 
soul. 

Turgenev's  place  in  modern  European  litera- 
ture   is    best   defined    by    saying    that   while 


INTRODUCTION 

he  stands  as  a  great  classic  in  the  ranks  of 
the  great  novelists,  along  with  Richardson, 
Fielding,  Scott,  Balzac,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
Meredith,  Tolstoi,  Flaubert,  Maupassant,  he  is 
the  greatest  of  them  all,  in  the  sense  that  he 
is  the  supreme  artist.  As  has  been  recognised 
by  the  best  French  critics,  Turgenev's  art  is 
both  wider  in  its  range  and  more  beautiful  in 
its  form  than  the  work  of  any  modern  European 
artist.  The  novel  modelled  by  Turgenev's 
hands,  the  Russian  novel,  became  the  great 
modern  instrument  for  showing  '  the  very  age 
and  body  of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure.' 
To  reproduce  human  life  in  all  its  subtlety  as  it 
moves  and  breathes  before  us,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  assess  its  values  by  the  great  poetic 
insight  that  reveals  man's  relations  to  the  uni- 
verse around  him, — that  is  an  art  only  tran- 
scended by  Shakespeare's  own  in  its  unique 
creation  of  a  universe  of  great  human  t\'pes. 
And,  comparing  Turgenev  with  the  European 
masters,  we  see  that  if  he  has  made  tlie  novel 
both  more  delicate  and  more  powerful  than 
their  example  shows  it,  it  is  because  as  the 
supreme  artist  he  filled  it  with  the  breath  of 
poetry  where  others  in  general  spoke  the  word 


INTRODUCTION 

of  prose.  Turgenev's  horizon  always  broadens 
before  our  eyes :  where  Fielding  and  Richard- 
son speak  for  the  country  and  the  town, 
Turgenev  speaks  for  the  nation.  While  Balzac 
makes  defile  before  us  an  endless  stream  of 
human  figures,  Turgenev's  characters  reveal 
themselves  as  wider  apart  in  the  range  of  their 
spirit,  as  more  mysteriously  alive  in  their  in- 
evitable essence,  than  do  Meredith's  or  Flau- 
bert's, than  do  Thackeray's  or  Maupassant's. 
Where  Tolstoi  uses  an  immense  canvas  in  IVar 
and  Peace,  wherein  Furope  may  see  the  march 
of  a  whole  generation,  Turgenev  in  Fathers 
and  Children  concentrates  in  the  few  words  of 
a  single  character,  Bazarov,  the  essence  of 
modern  science's  attitude  to  life,  that  scientific 
spirit  which  has  transformed  both  European 
life  and  thought.  It  is,  however,  superfluous  to 
draw  further  parallels  between  Turgenev  and 
his  great  rivals.  In  England  alone,  perhaps, 
is  it  necessary  to  say  to  the  young  novelist 
that  the  novel  can  become  anything,  can  be 
anything,  according  to  the  hands  that  use  it. 
In  its  application  to  life,  its  future  develop- 
ment can  by  no  means  be  gauged.  It  is  the 
most  complex  of  all  literary  instruments,  the 
xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

chief  method  to-day  of  analysing  the  com- 
plexities of  modern  life.  If  you  love  your  art, 
if  you  would  exalt  it,  treat  it  absolutely 
seriously.  If  you  would  study  it  in  its  highest 
form,  the  form  the  greatest  artist  of  our  time 
has  perfected — remember  Turgenev. 

EDWARD   GARNETT. 
November  1 899. 


nv 


CONTENTS 

FAG* 

THB   JEW,      .           .           .           .           .           4           .           •          •  I 

AN    UNHAPPY    GIRL,       .....••  3° 

THE   DUELLIST, 17° 

THREE   PORTRAITS 252 

ENOUGH, •           •  303 


THE    JEW 

.  .  *  Tell  us  a  story,  colonel/  we  said  at  last 
to  Nikolai  Ilyitch. 

The  colonel  smiled,  puffed  out  a  coil  of 
tobacco  smoke  between  his  moustaches,  passed 
his  hand  over  his  grey  hair,  looked  at  us  and 
considered.  We  all  had  the  greatest  liking  and 
respect  for  Nikolai  Ilyitch,  for  his  good-hearted- 
ness,  common  sense,  and  kindly  indulgence  to 
us  young  fellows.  He  was  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered,  stoutly-built  man  ;  his  dark  face, 
•one  of  the  splendid  Russian  faces,'^  straight- 
forward, clever  glance,  gentle  smile,  manly  and 
mellow  voice — everything  about  him  pleased 
and  attracted  one. 

'  All  right,  listen  then,'  he  began. 

It  happened  in  1813,  before  Dantzig.     I  was 

then  in  the  E regiment  of  cuirassiers,  and 

had  just,  I  recollect,  been  promoted  to  be  a 
cornet.  It  is  an  exhilarating  occupation — 
fighting ;    and   marching   too    is  good  enough 

*  Lermontov  in  the  Treasurer's  Wife. — Author's  Note. 
A  I 


THE  JEW 

in  its  way,  but  it  is  fearfully  slow  in  a  besieging 
army.  There  one  sits  the  whole  blessed  day 
within  some  sort  of  entrenchment,  under  a 
tent,  on  mud  or  straw,  playing  cards  from 
morning  till  night.  Perhaps,  from  simple  bore- 
dom, one  goes  out  to  watch  the  bombs  and 
redhot  bullets  flying. 

At  first  the  French  kept  us  amused  with 
sorties,  but  they  quickly  subsided.  We  soon 
got  sick  of  foraging  expeditions  too  ;  we  were 
overcome,  in  fact,  by  such  deadly  dulness  that 
we  were  ready  to  howl  for  sheer  ennui.  I 
was  not  more  than  nineteen  then  ;  I  was  a 
healthy  young  fellow,  fresh  as  a  daisy,  thought 
of  nothing  but  getting  all  the  fun  I  could  out 
of  the  French  .  .  .  and  in  other  ways  too  .  .  . 
you  understand  what  I  mean  .  .  .  and  this  is 
what  happened.  Having  nothing  to  do,  I  fell 
to  gambling.  All  of  a  sudden,  after  dreadful 
losses,  my  luck  turned,  and  towards  morning 
(we  used  to  play  at  night)  I  had  won  an 
immense  amount.  Exhausted  and  sleepy,  I 
came  out  into  the  fresh  air,  and  sat  down  on 
a  mound.  It  was  a  splendid,  calm  morning; 
the  long  lines  of  our  fortifications  were  lost  in 
the  mist ;  I  gazed  till  I  was  weary,  and  then 
began  to  doze  where  I  was  sitting. 

A  discreet  cough  waked  me :  I  opened  my 
eyes,  and  saw  standing  before  me  a  Jew,  a  man 
of  forty,  wearing  a  long-skirted  grey  wrapper, 

2 


THE   JEW 

slippers,  and  a  black  smoking-cap.  This  Jew, 
whose  name  was  Girshcl,  was  continually  hang- 
ing about  our  camp,  offering  his  services  as  an 
agent,  getting  us  wine,  provisions,  and  other 
such  trifles.  He  was  a  thinnish,  red-haired, 
little  man,  marked  with  smallpox  ;  he  blinked 
incessantly  with  his  diminutive  little  eyes, 
which  were  reddish  too  ;  he  had  a  long  crooked 
nose,  and  was  always  coughing. 

He  began  fidgeting  about  me,  bowing 
obsequiously. 

'  Well,  what  do  you  want  ? '  I  asked  him  at 
last. 

'  Oh,  I  only — I  've  only  come,  sir,  to  know 
if  I  can't  be  of  use  to  your  honour  in  some 
way  .  .  .' 

*  I  don't  want  you  ;  you  can  go.' 

*  At  your  honour's  service,  as  you  desire.  ,  .  . 
I  thought  there  might  be,  sir,  something  .  .  ,' 

*  You  bother  me  ;  go  along,  I  tell  you.' 

'  Certainly,  sir,  certainly.  But  your  honour 
must  permit  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
success.  .  .  .' 

*  Why,  how  did  you  know  ? ' 

'  Oh,  I  know,  to  be  sure  I  do.  .  .  .  An 
immense  sum  .  .  .  immense.  .  .  .  Oh !  how 
immense  .  .  .' 

Girshel  spread  out  his  fingers  and  wagged 
his  head. 

'  But  what 's  the  use  of  talking,'  I  said 
3 


THE   JEW 

peevishly ;    *  what    the    devil 's    the    good    of 
money  here  ? ' 

*  Oh !  don't  say  that,  your  honour ;  ay,  ay, 
don't  say  so.  Money 's  a  capital  thing  ;  always 
of  use  ;  you  can  get  anything  for  money,  your 
honour;  anything!  anything!  Only  say  the 
word  to  the  agent,  he  '11  get  you  anything,  your 
honour,  anything !  anything!' 

*  Don't  tell  lies,  Jew.' 

'Ay!  ay!'  repeated  Girshel,  shaking  his  side- 
locks.  '  Your  honour  doesn't  believe  me.  .  .  . 
Ay  .  .  .  ay.  .  .  .'  The  Jew  closed  his  eyes 
and  slowly  wagged  his  head  to  right  and 
to  left.  .  .  .  '  Oh,  I  know  what  his  honour 
the  officer  would  like.  ...  I  know,  ...  to  be 
sure  I  do !' 

The  Jew  assumed  an  exceedingly  knowing 
leer. 

'  Really ! ' 

The  Jew  glanced  round  timorously,  then  bent 
over  to  me. 

'  Such  a  lovely  creature,  your  honour, 
lovely !  .  .  .'  Girshel  again  closed  his  eyes 
and  shot  out  his  lips. 

'Your  honour,  you've  only  to  say  the 
word  .  .  .  you  shall  see  for  yourself  .  .  . 
whatever  I  say  now,  you  '11  hear  .  .  .  but  you 
won't  believe  .  .  .  better  tell  me  to  show 
you  .  .  .  that's  the  thing,  that's  the  thing!' 

I  did  not  speak  ;  I  gazed  at  the  Jew. 
4 


THE  je,w 

'  Well,  all  right  then  ;  well  then,  very  good  ; 
so  I  '11  show  you  then  ,  .  .' 

Thereupon  Girshel  laughed  and  slapped  me 
lightly  on  the  shoulder,  but  skipped  back  at 
once  as  though  he  had  been  scalded. 

'  But,  your  honour,  how  about  a  trifle  in 
advance  ? ' 

'  But  you  're  taking  me  in,  and  will  show  me 
some  scarecrow  ? ' 

'Ay,  ay,  what  a  thing  to  say!'  the  Jew 
pronounced  with  unusual  warmth,  waving  his 
hands  about.  *  How  can  you !  Why  ...  if 
so,  your  honour,  you  order  me  to  be  given  five 
hundred  .  .  .  four  hundred  and  fifty  lashes,'  he 
added  hurriedly.  .  .  .  '  You  give  orders ' 

At  that  moment  one  of  my  comrades  lifted 
the  edge  of  his  tent  and  called  me  by  name. 
I  got  up  hurriedly  and  flung  the  Jew  a  gold 
coin. 

'  This  evening,  this  evening,'  he  muttered 
after  me. 

I  must  confess,  my  friends,  I  looked  forward 
to  the  evening  with  some  impatier'^e.  That 
very  day  the  French  made  a  sortie ;  our  regi- 
ment marched  to  the  attack.  The  evening 
came  on ;  we  sat  round  the  fires  .  .  .  the 
soldiers  cooked  porridge.  My  comrades  talked, 
I  lay  on  my  cloak,  drank  tea,  and  listened  to 
my  comrades'  stories.  They  suggested  a  game 
of  cards — I  refused  to  take  part  in  it.  I  felt  ex- 
S 


THE  JEW 

cited.  Gradually  the  officers  dispersed  to  their 
tents;  the  fires  began  to  die  down  ;  the  soldiers 
too  dispersed,  or  went  to  sleep  on  the  spot ; 
everytliing  was  still.  I  did  not  get  up.  My 
orderly  squatted  on  his  heels  before  the  fire, 
and  was  beginning  to  nod.  I  sent  him  away. 
Soon  the  whole  camp  was  hushed.  The  sentries 
were  relieved.  I  still  lay  there,  as  it  were 
waiting  for  something.  The  stars  peeped  out. 
The  night  came  on.  A  long  while  I  watched 
the  dying  flame.  .  .  .  The  last  fire  went  out. 
'  The  damned  Jew  was  taking  me  in,'  I  thought 
angrily,  and  was  just  going  to  get  up. 

'  Your  honour,'  ...  a  trembling  voice  whis- 
pered close  to  my  ear. 

I  looked  round  :  Girshel.  He  was  very  pale, 
he  stammered,  and  whispered  something. 

'  Let 's  go  to  your  tent,  sir.' 

I  got  up  and  followed  him.  The  Jew  shrank 
into  himself,  and  stepped  warily  over  the  short, 
damp  grass.  I  observed  on  one  side  a  motion- 
less, muffled-up  figure.  The  Jew  beckoned  to 
her — she  went  up  to  him.  He  whispered  to 
her,  turned  to  me,  nodded  his  head  several 
times,  and  we  all  three  went  into  the  tent. 
Ridiculous  to  relate,  1  was  breathless. 

'  You  see,  your  honour,'  the  jew  whispered  with 

an  effort,  '  you  see.     She  's  a  little  frightened  at 

the  moment,  she  's  frightened;  but  I  've  told  her 

his  honour  the  officer  's  a  good  man,  a  splendid 

6 


THE  JEW 

man.  .  .  .  Don't  be  frightened,  don't  be  fright- 
ened,' he  went  on — '  don't  be  frightened.  .  .  .' 

The  mufiled-up  figure  did  not  stir.  I  was 
myself  in  a  state  of  dreadful  confusion,  and 
didn't  know  what  to  say.  Girshel  too  was 
fidgeting  restlessly,  and  gesticulating  in  a 
strange  way.  .  .  . 

'  Any  way,'  I  said  to  him,  '  you  get  out.  .  .  .' 
Unwillingly,  as  it  seemed,  Girshel  obeyed. 

I  went  up  to  the  muffled-up  figure,  and  gently 
took  the  dark  hood  off  her  head.  There  was  a 
conflagration  in  Dantzig  :  by  the  faint,  reddish, 
flickering  glow  of  the  distant  fire  I  saw  the 
pale  face  of  a  young  Jewess.  Her  beauty 
astounded  me.  I  stood  facing  her,  and  gazed 
at  her  in  silence.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 
A  slight  rustle  made  me  look  round.  Girshel 
was  cautiously  poking  his  head  in  under  the 
edge  of  the  tent.  I  waved  my  hand  at  him 
angrily,  ...  he  vanished. 

'  What's  your  name?'  I  said  at  last. 

*  Sara,'  she  answered,  and  for  one  instant  I 
caught  in  the  darkness  the  gleam  of  the  whites 
of  her  large,  long-shaped  eyes  and  little,  even, 
flashing  teeth. 

I  snatched  up  two  leather  cushions,  flung 
them  on  the  ground,  and  asked  her  to  sit  down. 
She  slipped  off"  her  shawl,  and  sat  down.  She 
was  wearing  a  short  Cossack  jacket,  open  in 
front,  with  round,  chased  silver  buttons,  and 
7 


THE  JEW 

full  sleeves.  Her  thick  black  hair  was  coiled 
twice  round  her  little  head.  I  sat  down  beside 
her  and  took  her  dark,  slender  hand.  She 
resisted  a  little,  but  seemed  afraid  to  look  at 
me,  and  there  was  a  catch  in  her  breath.  I 
admired  her  Oriental  profile,  and  timidly 
pressed  her  cold,  shaking  fingers, 

'  Do  you  know  Russian  ? ' 

*  Yes  ...  a  little.' 

'  And  do  you  like  Russians  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  like  them.' 

'  Then,  you  like  me  too  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  like  you.' 

I  tried  to  put  my  arm  round  her,  but  she 
moved  away  quickly  .  .  . 

'  No,  no,  please,  sir,  please  .  .  .* 

'  Oh,  all  right ;  look  at  me,  any  way.' 

She  let  her  black,  piercing  eyes  rest  upon 
me,  and  at  once  turned  away  with  a  smile,  and 
blushed. 

I  kissed  her  hand  ardently.  She  peeped  at 
mc  from  under  her  eyelids  and  softly  laughed. 

'What  is  it?' 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  sleeve  and  laughed 
more  than  before. 

Girshel  showed  himself  at  the  entrance  of 
the  tent  and  shook  his  finger  at  her.  She 
ceased  laughing. 

'  Go  away  1 '  I  whispered  to  him  through  my 
teeth  ;  '  you  make  me  sick  I ' 
8 


THE  JEW 

Girshel  did  not  go  away. 

I  took  a  handful  of  gold  pieces  out  of  my 
trunk,  stuffed  them  in  his  hand  and  pushed 
him  out. 

'  Your  honour,  me  too  .  .  .'  she  said. 

I  dropped  several  gold  coins  on  her  lap ; 
she  pounced  on  them  like  a  cat. 

'  Well,  now  I  must  have  a  kiss.' 

'  No,  please,  please,'  she  faltered  in  a  fright- 
ened and  beseeching  voice. 

'  What  are  you  frightened  of  ? ' 

*  I  'm  afraid.' 

'  Oh,  nonsense.  .  .  .* 

*  No,  please.' 

She  looked  timidly  at  me,  put  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side  and  clasped  her  hands.  I 
let  her  alone. 

'If  you  like  .  .  .  here,'  she  said  after  a  brief 
silence,  and  she  raised  her  hand  to  my  lips. 
With  no  great  eagerness,  I  kissed  it.  Sara 
laughed  again. 

My  blood  was  boiling.  I  was  annoyed  with 
myself  and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Really, 
I  thought  at  last,  what  a  fool  I  am. 

I  turned  to  her  again. 

'  Sara,  listen,  I  'm  in  love  with  you.' 

*  I  know.' 

'  You  know  ?     And  you  're  not  angry  ?    And 
do  you  like  me  too? ' 
Sara  shook  her  head. 
9 


THE  JEW 

'  No,  answer  me  properly.' 

*  Well,  show  yourself,'  she  said. 

I  bent  down  to  her.  Sara  laid  her  hands 
on  my  shoulders,  began  scrutinising  my  face, 
frowned,  smiled.  ...  I  could  not  contain  my- 
self, and  gave  her  a  rapid  kiss  on  her  cheek. 
She  jumped  up  and  in  one  bound  was  at  the 
entrance  of  the  tent. 

*  Come,  what  a  shy  thing  you  are  ! ' 
She  did  not  speak  and  did  not  stir. 

*  Come  here  to  me.  .  .  .' 

'  No,  sir,  good-bye.     Another  time.' 

Girshel  again  thrust  in  his  curly  head,  and 
said  a  couple  of  words  to  her  ;  she  bent  down 
and  glided  away,  like  a  snake. 

I  ran  out  of  the  tent  in  pursuit  of  her,  but 
could  not  get  another  glimpse  of  her  nor  of 
Girshel. 

The  whole  night  long  I  could  not  sleep  a  wink. 

The  next  night  we  were  sitting  in  the  tent 
of  our  captain  ;  I  was  playing,  but  with  no 
great  zest.     My  orderly  came  in. 

*  Some  one  's  asking  for  you,  your  honour.' 
'  Who  is  it  ? ' 

*  A  Jew.' 

'Can  it  be  Girshel?'  I  wondered.  I  waited 
till  the  end  of  the  rubber,  got  up  and  went  out. 
Yes,  it  was  so  ;  I  saw  Girshel. 

'  Well,'  he  questioned  me  with  an  ingratiating 
smile,  'your  honour,  are  you  satisfied?' 

lO 


THE  JEW 

'Ah,  you !'     (Here  the  colonel  c^lanced 

round.  '  No  ladies  present,  I  believe.  .  .  .  Well, 
never  mind,  any  way.')  '  Ah,  bless  you  ! '  I  re- 
sponded, 'so  you're  making  fun  of  me,  are 
you  ? ' 

'  How  so  ? ' 

'  How  so,  indeed  1     What  a  question  ! ' 

'  Ay,  ay,  your  honour,  you  're  too  bad,' 
Girshel  said  reproachfully,  but  never  ceasing 
smiling.  '  The  girl  is  young  and  modest.  .  .  . 
You  frightened  her,  indeed,  you  did.' 

'  Queer  sort  of  modesty  !  why  did  she  take 
money,  then  ? ' 

•Why,  what  then?  If  one's  given  money, 
why  not  take  it,  sir?' 

'  I  say,  Girshel,  let  her  come  again,  and  I  '11 
let  you  off  .  .  .  only,  please,  don't  show  your 
stupid  phiz  inside  my  tent,  and  leave  us  in 
peace  ;  do  you  hear?' 

Girshel's  eyes  sparkled. 

'What  do  you  say?     You  like  her?' 

'  Well,  yes.' 

'She's  a  lovely  creature !  there's  not  another 
such  anywhere.  And  have  you  something 
for  me  now  ? ' 

'  Yes,  here,  only  listen ;  fair  play  is  better 
than  gold.  Bring  her  and  then  go  to  the  devil. 
I  '11  escort  her  home  myself.' 

'Oh,  no,  sir,  no,  that's  impossible,  sir,'  the 
Jew  rejoined  hurriedly.  'Ay,  ay,  that's  im- 
II 


THE  JEW 

possible.  I '11  walk  about  near  the  tent,  your 
honour,  if  you  like  ;  I  '11  ...  I  '11  go  away, 
your  honour,  if  you  like,  a  little.  .  .  .  I 'm  ready 
to  do  your  honour  a  service.  ...  I  '11  move 
away  ...  to  be  sure,  I  will.' 

'Well,  mind  you  do.  .  .  .  And  bring  her,  do 
you  hear  ? ' 

'  Eh,  but  she  's  a  beauty,  your  honour,  eh  ? 
your  honour,  a  beauty,  eh  ? ' 

Girshel  bent  down  and  peeped  into  my 
eyes. 

'  She  's  good-looking.' 

'  Well,  then,  give  me  another  gold  piece.' 

I  threw  him  a  coin  ;  we  parted. 

The  day  passed  at  last.  The  night  came  on. 
I  had  been  sitting  for  a  long  while  alone  in  my 
tent.  It  was  dark  outside.  It  struck  two  in  the 
town.  I  was  beginning  to  curse  the  Jew.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  Sara  came  in,  alone.  I  jumped  up 
took  her  in  my  arms  .  .  .  put  my  lips  to 
her  face.  ...  It  was  cold  as  ice.  I  could 
scarcely  distinguish  her  features.  ...  I  made 
her  sit  down,  knelt  down  before  her,  took  her 
hands,  touched  her  waist.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
speak,  did  not  stir,  and  suddenly  she  broke 
into  loud,  convulsive  sobbing.  I  tried  in 
vain  to  soothe  her,  to  persuade  her.  .  .  . 
She  wept  in  torrents.  ...  I  caressed  her, 
wiped  her  tears  ;  as  before,  she  did  not 
resist,  made  no  answer  to  my  questions  and 

12 


THE  JEW 

wept — wept,  like  a  waterfall.  I  felt  a  pang 
at  my  heart ;  I  got  up  and  went  out  of  the 
tent. 

Girshel  seemed  to  pop  up  out  of  the  earth 
before  me. 

'Girshel,'  I  said  to  him,  'here's  the  money 
I  promised  you.     Take  Sara  away.' 

The  Jew  at  once  rushed  up  to  her.  She  left 
off  weeping,  and  clutched  hold  of  him. 

'  Good-bye,  Sara,'  I  said  to  her.  '  God  bless 
you,  good-bye.  We'll  see  each  other  again 
some  other  time.' 

Girshel  was  silent  and  bowed  humbly.  Sara 
bent  down,  took  my  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
lips ;  I  turned  away.  .  .  . 

For  five  or  six  days,  my  friends,  I  kept 
thinking  of  my  Jewess.  Girshel  did  not  make 
his  appearance,  and  no  one  had  seen  him  in 
the  camp.  I  slept  rather  badly  at  nights  ;  I 
was  continually  haunted  by  wet,  black  eyes, 
and  long  eyelashes ;  my  lips  could  not  forget 
the  touch  of  her  cheek,  smooth  and  fresh  as 
a  downy  plum.  I  was  sent  out  with  a  foraging 
party  to  a  village  some  distance  away.  While 
my  soldiers  were  ransacking  the  houses,  I  re- 
mained in  the  street,  and  did  not  dismount 
from  my  horse.  Suddenly  some  one  caught 
hold  of  my  foot.  .  .  . 

'  Mercy  on  us,  Sara  ! ' 

She  was  pale  and  excited. 
13 


THE  JEW 

'Your  honour  .  .  .  help  us,  save  us,  your 
soldiers  are  insulting  us.  .  .  .  Your  honour.  .  .  .' 

She  recognised  me  and  flushed  red. 

'  Why,  do  you  live  here  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  Where  ? ' 

Sara  pointed  to  a  little,  old  house.  I  set 
spurs  to  my  horse  and  galloped  up.  In  the 
yard  of  the  little  house  an  ugly  and  tattered 
Jewess  was  trying  to  tear  out  of  the  hands  of 
my  long  sergeant,  Siliavka,  three  hens  and  a 
duck.  He  was  holding  his  booty  above  his 
head,  laughing ;  the  hens  clucked  and  the 
duck  quacked.  .  .  .  Two  other  cuirassiers  were 
loading  their  horses  with  hay,  straw,  and 
sacks  of  flour.  Inside  the  house  I  heard 
shouts  and  oaths  in  Little-Russian.  ...  I 
called  to  my  men  and  told  them  to  leave  the 
Jews  alone,  not  to  take  anything  from  them. 
The  soldiers  obeyed,  the  sergeant  got  on  his 
grey  mare,  Proserpina,  or,  as  he  called  her, 
'  Prozherpila,'  and  rode  after  me  into  the  street. 

*  Well,'  I  said  to  Sara,  '  are  you  pleased  with 
me?' 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  smile. 

'What  has  become  of  you  all  this  time?' 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

'  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow  ' 

'  In  the  evening?' 

'  No,  sir,  in  the  morning.' 
14 


THE  JEW 

'  Mind  you  do,  don't  deceive  me.' 

'  No  .  .  .  no,  I  won't.' 

I  looked  greedily  at  her.  By  daylight  she 
seemed  to  me  handsomer  than  ever.  I  re- 
member I  was  particularly  struck  by  the  even, 
amber  tint  of  her  face  and  the  bluish  lights  in 
her  black  hair.  ...  I  bent  down  from  my  horse 
and  warmly  pressed  her  little  hand. 

'  Good-bye,  Sara  .  .  .  mind  you  come.' 

'  Yes.' 

She  went  home  ;  I  told  the  sergeant  to  follow 
me  with  the  party,  and  galloped  off. 

The  next  day  I  got  up  very  early,  dressed, 
and  went  out  of  the  tent.  It  was  a  glorious 
morning;  the  sun  had  just  risen  and  every 
blade  of  grass  was  sparkling  in  the  dew  and 
the  crimson  glow.  I  clambered  on  to  a  high 
breastwork,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  an 
embrasure.  Below  me  a  stout,  cast-iron  cannon 
stuck  out  its  black  muzzle  towards  the  open 
country.  I  looked  carelessly  about  me  .  .  .  and 
all  at  once  caught  sight  of  a  bent  figure  in 
a  grey  wrapper,  a  hundred  paces  from  me.  I 
recognised  Girshel.  He  stood  without  moving 
for  a  long  while  in  one  place,  then  suddenly 
ran  a  little  on  one  side,  looked  hurriedly  and 
furtively  round  .  .  .  uttered  a  cry,  squatted 
down,  cautiously  craned  his  neck  and  began 
looking  round  again  and  listening.  I  could 
see  all  his  actions  ver}-  clearly.  He  put  his 
IS 


THE  JEW 

hand  into  his  bosom,  took  out  a  scrap  of 
paper  and  a  pencil,  and  began  writing  or  draw- 
ing something.  Girshel  continually  stopped, 
started  like  a  hare,  attentively  scrutinised  every- 
thing around  him,  and  seemed  to  be  sketching 
our  camp.  More  than  once  he  hid  his  scrap 
of  paper,  half  closed  his  eyes,  sniffed  at  the 
air,  and  again  set  to  work.  At  last,  the  Jew 
squatted  down  on  the  grass,  took  off  his  slipper, 
and  stuffed  the  paper  in  it ;  but  he  had  not 
time  to  regain  his  legs,  when  suddenly,  ten 
steps  from  him,  there  appeared  from  behind  the 
slope  of  an  earthwork  the  whiskered  counte- 
nance of  the  sergeant  Siliavka,  and  gradually 
the  whole  of  his  long  clumsy  figure  rose  up 
from  the  ground.  The  Jew  stood  with  his 
back  to  him.  Siliavka  went  quickly  up  to  him 
and  laid  his  heavy  paw  on  his  shoulder.  Girshel 
seemed  to  shrink  into  himself.  He  shook  like 
a  leaf  and  uttered  a  feeble  cry,  like  a  hare's. 
Siliavka  addressed  him  threateningly,  and 
seized  him  by  the  collar.  I  could  not  hear 
their  conversation,  but  from  the  despairing 
gestures  of  the  Jew,  and  his  supplicating 
appearance,  I  began  to  guess  what  it  was. 
The  Jew  twice  flung  himself  at  the  sergeant's 
feet,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  pulled  out  a  torn 
check  handkerchief,  untied  a  knot,  and  took 
out  gold  coins.  .  .  .  Siliavka  took  his  offering 
with  great  dignity,  but  did  not  leave  off  dragging 
i6 


THE  JEW 

the  Jew  by  the  collar.  Girshel  made  a  sudden 
bound  and  rushed  away  ;  the  sergeant  sped 
after  him  in  pursuit  The  Jew  ran  exceedingly 
well  ;  his  legs,  clad  in  blue  stockings,  flashed 
by,  really  very  rapidly ;  but  Siliavka  after  a 
short  run  caught  the  crouching  Jew,  made 
him  stand  up,  and  carried  him  in  his  arms 
straight  to  the  camp.  I  got  up  and  went  to 
meet  him. 

'  Ah  !  your  honour ! '  bawled  Siliavka, — '  it 's  a 
spy  I  'm  bringing  you — a  spy !  .  .  .'  The  sturdy 
Little-Russian  was  streaming  with  perspira- 
tion. '  Stop  that  wriggling,  devilish  Jew — now 
then  .  .  .  you  wretch !  you  'd  better  look  out, 
I  '11  throttle  you  ! ' 

The  luckless  Girshel  was  feebly  prodding  his 
elbows  into  Siliavka's  chest,  and  feebly  kick- 
ing. .  .  .  His  eyes  were  rolling  convulsively  .  .  . 

'What's  the  matter?'  I  questioned  Siliavka. 

'If  your  honour '11  be  so  good  as  to  take  the 
slipper  off  his  right  foot, — I  can't  get  at  it.' 
He  was  still  holding  the  Jew  in  his  arms. 

I  took  off  the  slipper,  took  out  of  it  a  care- 
fully folded  piece  of  paper,  unfolded  it,  and 
found  an  accurate  map  of  our  camp.  On  the 
margin  were  a  number  of  notes  written  in  a 
fine  hand  in  the  Jews'  language. 

Meanwhile  Siliavka  had  set  Girshel  on  his 
legs.  The  Jew  opened  his  eyes,  saw  me,  and 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  me. 

B  17 


THE  JEW 

Without  speaking,  I  showed  him  the  paper. 

'What's  this?' 

'  It's — nothing,  your  honour.  I  was  only  . . .' 
His  voice  broke. 

*  Are  you  a  spy  ?  * 

He  did  not  understand  me,  muttered  dis- 
connected words,  pressed  my  knees  in  terror  . . . 

'  Are  you  a  spy?  ' 

'  I ! '  he  cried  faintly,  and  shook  his  head. 
*  How  could  I  ?  I  never  did  ;  I  'm  not  at  all. 
It's  not  possible;  utterly  impossible.  I'm  ready 
— I  '11 — this  minute — I  've  money  to  give  .  .  . 
I  '11  pay  for  it,'  he  whispered,  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

The  smoking-cap  had  slipped  back  on  to  his 
neck ;  his  reddish  hair  was  soaked  with  cold 
sweat,  and  hung  in  tails  ;  his  lips  were  blue, 
and  working  convulsively ;  his  brows  were  con- 
tracted painfully  ;  his  face  was  drawn  .  .  . 

Soldiers  came  up  round  us.  I  had  at  first 
meant  to  give  Girshel  a  good  fright,  and  to  tell 
Siliavka  to  hold  his  tongue,  but  now  the  affair 
had  become  public,  and  could  not  escape  '  the 
cognisance  of  the  authorities.' 

'Take  him  to  the  general,'  I  said  to  the 
sergeant. 

'  Your  honour,  your  honour!'  the  Jew  shrieked 
in  a  voice  of  despair.  *  I  am  not  guilty  .  .  . 
not  guilty.  .  .  .  Tell  him  to  let  me  go,  tell 
him  .  .  .' 

i8 


THE  JEW 

*  His  Excellency  will  decide  about  that,'  said 
Siliavka.     *  Come  along,' 

'  Your  honour ! '  the  Jew  shrieked  after  me — 
*tell  him  !  have  mercy  ! ' 

His  shriek  tortured  me  ;  I  hastened  my  pace. 
Our  general  was  a  man  of  German  extraction, 
honest  and  good-hearted,  but  strict  in  his 
adherence  to  military  discipline.  I  went  into 
the  little  house  that  had  been  hastily  put  up 
for  him,  and  in  a  few  words  explained  the 
reason  of  my  visit.  I  knew  the  severity  of 
the  military  regulations,  and  so  I  did  not  even 
pronounce  the  word  '  spy,'  but  tried  to  put  the 
whole  affair  before  him  as  something  quite 
trifling  and  not  worth  attention.  But,  un- 
happily for  Girshel,  the  general  put  doing  his 
duty  higher  than  pity. 

'You,  young  man,'  he  said  to  me  in  his 
broken  Russian,  '  inexperienced  are.  You  in 
military  matters  yet  inexperienced  are.  The 
matter,  of  which  you  to  me  reported  have,  is 
important,  very  important.  .  .  .  And  where  is 
this  man  who  taken  was?  this  Jew?  where  is 
he?' 

I  went  out  and  told  them  to  bring  in  the 
Jew.  They  brought  in  the  Jew.  The  wretched 
creature  could  scarcely  stand  up. 

•Yes,'  pronounced  the  general,  turning  to 
me  ;  *  and  where 's  the  plan  which  on  this  man 
found  was  ? ' 

19 


THE   JEW 

I  handed  him  the  paper.  The  general  opened 
it,  turned  away  again,  screwed  up  his  eyes, 
frowned  .  . 

'  This  is  most  as-ton-ish-ing  .  .  .*  he  said 
slowly.     '  Who  arrested  him  ? ' 

*  I,  your  Excellency!'  Siliavka  jerked  out 
sharply, 

'  Ah  !  good !  good !  .  .  .  Well,  my  good 
man,  what  do  you  say  in  your  defence?' 

'  Your  .  .  .  your  ,  .  .  your  Excellency,' 
stammered  Girshel,  '  I  .  .  .  indeed,  .  .  .  your 
Excellency  .  .  .  I  'm  not  guilty'.  .  .  your  Excel- 
lency ;  ask  his  honour  the  officer  ...  I  'm  an 
agent,  your  Excellency,  an  honest  agent.' 

'  He  ought  to  be  cross-examined,'  the  general 
murmured  in  an  undertone,  wagging  his  head 
gravely.  *  Come,  how  do  you  explain  this,  my 
friend  ? ' 

'  I  'm  not  guilty,  your  Excellency,  I  'm  not 
guilty.' 

'  That  is  not  probable,  however.  You  were 
— how  is  it  said  in  Russian  ? — taken  on  the 
fact,  that  is,  in  the  very  facts ! ' 

'  Hear  me,  your  Excellency ;  I  am  not 
guilty.' 

'  You  drew  the  plan  ?  you  are  a  spy  of  the 
enemy?' 

'It  wasn't  me!'  Girshel  shrieked  suddenly; 
'  not  I,  your  Excellency  ! ' 

The  general  looked  at  Siliavka. 
20 


THE   JEW 

'Why,  he's  raving,  your  Excellency.  His 
honour  the  officer  here  took  the  plan  out  of 
his  slipper.' 

The  general  looked  at  me.  I  was  obliged  to 
nod  assent. 

'You  are  a  spy  from  the  enemy,  my  good 
man  .  .  .' 

'  Not  I  .  .  .  not  I  .  .  .'  whispered  the  distracted 
Jew. 

'  You  have  the  enemy  with  similar  informa- 
tion before  provided  ?     Confess  .  .  .' 

'  How  could  I  ? ' 

'  You  will  not  deceive  me,  my  good  man. 
Are  you  a  spy  ? ' 

The  Jew  closed  his  eyes,  shook  his  head, 
and  lifted  the  skirts  of  his  gown. 

'  Hang  him,'  the  general  pronounced  expres- 
sively after  a  brief  silence,  '  according  to  the 
law.     Where  is  Mr.  Fiodor  Schliekelmann  ?  ' 

They  ran  to  fetch  Schliekelmann,  the  general's 
adjutant.  Girshel  began  to  turn  greenish,  his 
mouth  fell  open,  his  eyes  seemed  starting  out 
of  his  head.  The  adjutant  came  in.  The 
general  gave  him  the  requisite  instructions. 
The  secretary  showed  his  sickly,  pock-marked 
face  for  an  instant.  Two  or  three  officers 
peeped  into  the  room  inquisitively. 

'  Have  pity,  your  Excellency,'  I  said  to  the 
general  in  German  as  best  1  could  ;  '  let  him 
off  .     .' 

21 


THE   JEW 

*  You,  young  man,'  he  answered  me  in  Russian, 
'  I  was  saying  to  you,  are  inexperienced,  and 
therefore  I  beg  you  silent  to  be,  and  me  no 
more  to  trouble.' 

Girshel  with  a  shriek  dropped  at  the  general's 
feet. 

'Your  Excellency,  have  mercy;  I  will  never 
again,  I  will  not,  your  Excellency ;  I  have  a 
wife  ,  .  .  your  Excellency,  a  daughter  .  .  . 
have  mercy  .  .  .' 

'  It's  no  use  !' 

'Truly,  your  Excellency,  I  am  guilty  .  .  . 
it's  the  first  time,  your  Excellency,  the  first 
time,  believe  me ! ' 

'You  furnished  no  other  documents?' 

'  The  first  time,  your  Excellency,  .  .  .  my 
wife  ,  .  .  my  children  .  .  .  have  mercy  .  .  .' 

'  But  you  are  a  spy.' 

'  My  wife  .  .  .  your  Excellency  .  .  .  my 
children  .  .  .' 

The  general  felt  a  twinge,  but  there  was  no 
getting  out  of  it. 

'  According  to  the  law,  hang  the  Hebrew,'  he 
said  constrainedly,  with  the  air  of  a  man  forced 
to  do  violence  to  his  heart,  and  sacrifice  his 
better  feelings  to  inexorable  duty — 'hang  him  ! 
Fiodor  Karlitch,  I  beg  you  to  draw  up  a  report 
of  the  occurrence  .  .  .' 

A  horrible  change  suddenly  came  over 
Girshel.     Instead    of    the    ordinary    timorous 

22 


THE   JEW 

alarm  peculiar  to  the  Jewish  nature,  m  his 
face  was  reflected  the  horrible  agony  that 
comes  before  death.  He  writhed  like  a  wild 
beast  trapped,  his  mouth  stood  open,  there  was 
a  hoarse  rattle  in  his  throat,  he  positively  leapt 
up  and  down,  convulsively  moving  his  elbows. 
He  had  on  only  one  slipper  ;  they  had  forgotten 
to  put  the  other  on  again  ...  his  gown  fell 
open  .  .  .  his  cap  had  fallen  off  .  .  . 

We  all  shuddered ;  the  general  stopped 
speaking. 

'  Your  Excellency,'  I  began  again,  '  pardon 
this  wretched  creature.' 

'  Impossible !  It  is  the  law,'  the  general 
replied  abruptly,  and  not  without  emotion, 
'for  a  warning  to  others.' 

'  For  pity's  sake  .  .  .' 

'  Mr.  Cornet,  be  so  good  as  to  return  to  your 
post,'  said  the  general,  and  he  motioned  me 
imperiously  to  the  door. 

I  bowed  and  went  out.  But  seeing  that  in 
reality  I  had  no  post  anywhere,  I  remained  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  general's  house. 

Two  minutes  later  Girshel  made  his  appear- 
ance, conducted  by  Siliavka  and  three  soldiers. 
The  poor  Jew  was  in  a  state  of  stupefaction, 
and  could  hardly  move  his  legs.  Siliavka  went 
by  me  to  the  camp,  and  soon  returned  with  a 
rope  in  his  hands.  His  coarse  but  not  ill- 
natured  face  wore  a  look  of  strange,  exasper- 
23 


TTIE  JEW 

ated  commiseration.  At  the  sight  of  the  rope 
the  Jew  flung  up  his  arms,  sat  down,  and  burst 
into  sobs.  The  soldiers  stood  silently  about 
him,  and  .stared  grimly  at  the  earth.  I  went 
up  to  Girshel,  addressed  him  ;  he  sobbed  like 
a  baby,  and  did  not  even  look  at  me.  With  a 
hopeless  gesture  I  went  to  my  tent,  flung  my- 
self on  a  rug,  and  closed  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  some  one  ran  hastily  and  noisily 
into  my  tent.  I  raised  my  head  and  saw  Sara  ; 
she  looked  beside  herself.  She  rushed  up  to 
me,  and  clutched  at  my  hands. 

'Come  along,  come  along,'  she  insisted 
breathlessly. 

'  Where  ?  what  for  ?  let  us  stop  here.' 

'To  father,  to  father,  quick  .  .  .  save  him  .  . . 
save  him  ! ' 

'  To  what  father  ? ' 

'  My  father  ;  they  are  going  to  hang  him  .  .  .' 

'  What !  is  Girshel  .  .  .  ?  ' 

'  My  father  ...  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it 
later,'  she  added,  wringing  her  hands  in  despair  : 
'only  come  .  .  .  come  .  .  .' 

We  ran  out  of  the  tent.  In  the  open  ground, 
on  the  way  to  a  solitary  birch-tree,  we  could  see 
a  group  of  soldiers.  .  .  .  Sara  pointed  to  them 
without  speaking.   .  .  . 

'  Stop,'  I  said  to  her  suddenly :  '  where  are 
we  running  to  ?  The  soldiers  won't  obey 
me.' 

24 


THE   JEW 

Sara  still  pulled  me  after  her.  ...  I  must 
confess,  my  head  was  going  round. 

'But  listen,  Sara,'  I  said  to  her ;  'what  sense 
is  there  in  running  here?  It  would  be  better 
for  me  to  go  to  the  general  again;  let's  go 
together ;  v.ho  knows,  we  may  persuade  him.' 

Sara  suddenly  stood  still  and  gazed  at  me, 
as  though  she  were  crazy. 

'  Understand  me,  Sara,  for  God's  sake.  I 
can't  do  anything  for  your  father,  but  the 
general  can.     Let 's  go  to  him.' 

'  But  meanwhile  they  '11  hang  him,'  she 
moaned.  .  .  . 

I  looked  round.  The  secretary  was  stand- 
ing not  far  off. 

'  Ivanov,'  I  called  to  him;  'run,  please,  over 
there  to  them,  tell  them  to  wait  a  little,  say  I  've 
gone  to  petition  the  general.' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

Ivanov  ran  off. 

We  were  not  admitted  to  the  general's 
presence.  In  vain  I  begged,  persuaded,  swore 
even,  at  last  ...  in  vain,  poor  Sara  tore  her 
hair  and  rushed  at  the  sentinels  ;  they  would 
not  let  us  pass. 

Sara  looked  wildly  round,  clutched  her 
head  in  both  hands,  and  ran  at  breakneck 
pace  towards  the  open  country,  to  her  father. 
I  followed  her.  Every  one  stared  at  us, 
wondering. 

25 


THE   JEW 

We  ran  up  to  the  soldiers.  They  were  stand- 
ing in  a  ring,  and  picture  it,  gentlemen !  they 
were  laughing,  laughing  at  poor  Girshel.  I  flew 
into  a  rage  and  shouted  at  them.  The  Jew  saw 
us  and  fell  on  his  daughter's  neck.  Sara  clung 
to  him  passionately. 

The  poor  wretch  imagined  he  was  par- 
doned .  .  .  He  was  just  beginning  to  thank 
me  ...  I  turned  away. 

'  Your  honour,'  he  shrieked  and  wrung  his 
hands  ;  '  I  'm  not  pardoned  ?  ' 

I  did  not  speak. 

'No?' 

'No.' 

'  Your  honour,'  he  began  muttering  ;  '  look, 
your  honour,  look  ,  she,  this  girl,  see — you 
know — she  's  my  daughter.' 

'  I  know,'  I  answered,  and  turned  away  again. 

*  Your  honour/  he  shrieked,  '  I  never  went 
away  from  the  tent !  I  wouldn't  for  any- 
thing .  .  .' 

He  stopped,  and  closed  his  eyes  for  an  in- 
stant. .  .  .  '  I  wanted  your  money,  your  honour, 
I  must  own  .  .  .  but  not  for  anything  .  .  .' 

I  was  silent.  Girshel  was  loathsome  to  me, 
and  she  too,  his  accomplice.  .  .  . 

'  But  now,  if  you  save  me,'  the  Jew  articulated 
in  a  whisper,  *  I  '11  command  her  ...  I  ...  do 
you  understand  ?  .  .  .  everything  ...  I  '11  go 
to  every  length.  .  .  .' 

26 


THE  JEW 

He  was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  looking 
about  him  hurriedly.  Sara  silently  and 
passionately  embraced  him. 

The  adjutant  came  up  to  us. 

'  Cornet/  he  said  to  me  ;  'his  Excellency  has 
given  me  orders  to  place  you  under  arrest. 
And  you  .  .  .'  he  motioned  the  soldiers  to  the 
Jew  .  .  .  '  quickly.' 

Siliavka  went  up  to  the  Jew. 

'Fiodor  Karlitch/  I  said  to  the  adjutant  (five 
soldiers  had  come  with  him);  'tell  them,  at 
least,  to  take  away  that  poor  girl.  .  .  .' 

'  Of  course.     Certainly.' 

The  unhappy  girl  was  scarcely  conscious. 
Girshel  was  muttering  something  to  her  in 
Yiddish.  .  .  . 

The  soldiers  with  difficulty  freed  Sara  from 
her  father's  arms,  and  carefully  carried  her 
twenty  steps  away.  But  all  at  once  she  broke 
from  their  arms  and  rushed  towards  Girshel. 
.  .  .  Siliavka  stopped  her.  Sara  pushed  him 
away ;  her  face  was  covered  with  a  faint  flush, 
her  eyes  flashed,  she  stretched  out  her  arms. 

'  So  may  you  be  accursed,'  she  screamed  in 
German;  'accursed,  thrice  accursed,  you  and 
all  the  hateful  breed  of  you,  with  the  curse 
of  Dathan  and  Abiram,  the  curse  of  poverty 
and  sterility  and  violent,  shameful  death  !  May 
the  earth  open  under  your  feet,  godless,  piti- 
less, bloodthirsty  dogs.  .  .  .' 

37 


THE   JEW 

Her  head  dropped  back  .  .  .  she  fell  to  the 
ground.  .  .  .  They  lifted  her  up  and  carried 
her  away. 

The  soldiers  took  Girshel  under  his  arms.  I 
saw  then  why  it  was  they  had  been  laughing  at 
the  Jew  when  I  ran  up  from  thecamp.with  Sara. 
He  was  really  ludicrous,  in  spite  of  all  the 
horror  of  his  position.  The  intense  anguish 
of  parting  with  life,  his  daughter,  his  family, 
showed  itself  in  the  Jew  in  such  strange  and 
grotesque  gesticulations,  shrieks,  and  wriggles 
that  we  all  could  not  help  smiling,  though  it 
was  horrible — intensely  horrible  to  us  too.  The 
poor  wretch  was  half  dead  with  terror.  .  .  . 

*  Oy  !  oy  !  oy  ! '  he  shrieked  :  '  oy  .  .  wait ! 
I  've  something  to  tell  you  ...  a  lot  to  tell 
you.  Mr.  Under-sergeant,  you  know  me.  I  'm 
an  agent,  an  honest  agent.  Don't  hold  me  ; 
wait  a  minute,  a  little  minute,  a  tiny  minute — 
wait !  Let  me  go  ;  I  'm  a  poor  Hebrew.  Sara 
.  .  .  where  is  Sara  ?  Oh,  I  know,  she 's  at  his 
honour  the  quarter-lieutenant's.'  (God  knows 
why  he  bestowed  such  an  unheard-of  grade 
upon  me.)  'Your  honour  the  quarter-lieutenant, 
I  'm  not  going  away  from  the  tent.'  (The 
soldiers  were  taking  hold  of  Girshel  ,  .  he 
uttered  a  deafening  shriek,  and  wriggled  out  of 
their  hands.)  *  Your  Excellency,  have  pity  on 
the  unhappy  father  of  a  family.  I  '11  give  you 
ten  golden  pieces,  fifteen  I  '11  give,  your  Excel- 
28 


THE  JEW 

lency!  .  .  .*  (They  dragged  him  to  the  birch- 
tree.)  'Spare  me!  have  mercy!  your  honour 
the  quarter-h'eutenant !  your  Excellency,  the 
general  and  commander-in-chief  I' 

They  put  the  noose  on  the  Jew.  ...  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  rushed  away. 

I  remained  for  a  fortnight  under  arrest.  I 
was  told  that  the  widow  of  the  luckless  Girshel 
came  to  fetch  away  the  clothes  of  the  deceased. 
The  general  ordered  a  hundred  roubles  to  be 
given  to  her.  Sara  I  never  saw  again.  I  was 
wounded  ;  I  was  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  by 
the  time  I  was  well  again,  Dantzig  had  sur- 
rendered, and  I  joined  my  regiment  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine. 

1846. 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

Yes,  yes,  began  Piotr  Gavrilovitch  ;  those 
were  painful  days  .  .  .  and  I  would  rather  not 
recall  them.  .  .  .  But  I  have  made  you  a  pro- 
mise ;  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  story. 
Listen. 


I 

I  WAS  living  at  that  time  (the  winter  of  1835) 
in  Moscow,  in  the  house  of  my  aunt,  the  sister 
of  my  dead  mother.  I  was  eighteen  ;  I  had 
only  just  passed  from  the  second  into  the  third 
course  in  the  faculty  *of  Language'  (that  was 
what  it  was  called  in  those  days)  in  the  Moscow 
University,  My  aunt  was  a  gentle,  quiet  woman 
— a  widow.  She  lived  in  a  big,  wooden  house 
in  Ostozhonka,  one  of  those  warm,  cosy  houses 
such  as,  I  fancy,  one  can  find  nowhere  else 
but  in  Moscow.  She  saw  hardly  any  one,  sat 
from  morning  till  night  in  the  drawing-room 
with  two  companions,  drank  the  choicest  tea, 
30 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

played  patience,  and  was  continually  request- 
ing that  the  room  should  be  fumigated.  There- 
upon her  companions  ran  into  the  hall ;  a  few 
minutes  later  an  old  servant  in  livery  would 
bring  in  a  copper  pan  with  a  bunch  of  mint  on 
a  hot  brick,  and  stepping  hurriedly  upon  the 
narrow  strips  of  carpet,  he  would  sprinkle  the 
mint  with  vinegar.  White  fumes  always  puffed 
up  about  his  wrinkled  face,  and  he  frowned 
and  turned  away,  while  the  canaries  in  the 
dining-room  chirped  their  hardest,  exasperated 
by  the  hissing  of  the  smouldering  mint. 

I  was  fatherless  and  motherless,  and  my 
aunt  spoiled  me.  She  placed  the  whole  of 
the  ground  floor  at  my  complete  disposal. 
My  rooms  were  furnished  very  elegantly,  not 
at  all  like  a  student's  rooms  in  fact ;  there 
were  pink  curtains  in  the  bedroom,  and  a 
muslin  canopy,  adorned  with  blue  rosettes, 
towered  over  my  bed.  Those  rosettes  were, 
I  '11  own,  rather  an  annoyance  to  me  ;  to 
my  thinking,  such  'effeminacies'  were  calcu- 
lated to  lower  me  in  the  eyes  of  my  companions. 
As  it  was,  they  nicknamed  me  '  the  boarding- 
school  miss.'  I  could  never  succeed  in  forcing 
myself  to  smoke.  I  studied — why  conceal  my 
shortcomings  ? — very  lazily,  especially  at  the 
beginning  of  the  course.  I  went  out  a  great 
deal.  My  aunt  had  bestowed  on  me  a  wide 
sledge,  fit  for  a  general,  with  a  pair  of  sleek 
31 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

horses.  At  the  houses  of  'the  gentry'  my 
visits  were  rare,  but  at  the  theatre  I  was  quite 
at  home,  and  I  consumed  masses  of  tarts  at  the 
restaurants.  For  all  that,  I  permitted  myself 
no  breach  of  decorum,  and  behaved  very  dis- 
creetly, en  Jeune  homme  de  bonne  maison.  I 
would  not  for  anything  in  the  world  have 
pained  my  kind  aunt  ;  and  besides  I  was 
naturally  of  a  rather  cool  temperament. 


II 


From  my  earliest  years  I  had  been  fond  of 
chess  ;  I  had  no  idea  of  the  science  of  the 
game,  but  I  didn't  play  badly.  One  day  in  a 
caf6,  I  was  the  spectator  of  a  prolonged  contest 
at  chess,  between  two  players,  of  whom  one,  a 
fair-haired  young  man  of  about  five-and-twenty, 
struck  me  as  playing  well.  The  game  ended 
in  his  favour  ;  I  offered  to  play  a  match  with 
him.  He  agreed,  .  .  .  and  in  the  course  of  an 
hour,  beat  me  easily,  three  times  running. 

'  You  have  a  natural  gift  for  the  game,'  he 
pronounced  in  a  courteous  tone,  noticing  pro- 
bably that  my  vanity  was  suffering;  'but  you 
don't  know  the  openings.  You  ought  to  study 
a  chess-book — Allgacir  or  Petrov.' 

'Do  you  think  so?  But  where  can  I  get 
such  a  book  ? ' 

32 


AN   UNHAPPY   GIRL 


'Come  to  me  ;  I  will  give  you  one.* 
He  gave  me  his  name,  and  told  me  where  he 
was  living.     Next  day  I  went  to  see  him,  and 
a  week  later  we  were  almost  inseparable. 


Ill 


My  new  acquaintance  was  called  Alexander 
Davidovitch  Fustov.  He  lived  with  his 
mother,  a  rather  wealthy  woman,  the  widow 
of  a  privy  councillor,  but  he  occupied  a  little 
lodge  apart  and  lived  quite  independently,  just 
as  I  did  at  my  aunt's.  He  had  a  post  in 
the  department  of  Court  affairs.  I  became 
genuinely  attached  to  him.  I  had  never  in  my 
life  met  a  young  man  more  'sympathetic' 
Everything  about  him  was  charming  and 
attractive :  his  graceful  figure,  his  bearing,  his 
voice,  and  especially  his  small,  delicate  face 
with  the  golden-blue  eyes,  the  elegant,  as  it 
were  coquettishly  moulded  little  nose,  the 
unchanging  amiable  smile  on  the  crimson 
lips,  the  light  curls  of  soft  hair  over  the 
rather  narrow,  snow-white  brow.  Fustov's 
character  was  remarkable  for  exceptional 
serenity,  and  a  sort  of  amiable,  restrained 
affability  ;  he  was  never  preoccupied,  and  was 
always  satisfied  with  everything ;  but  on  the 
other  hand  he  was  never  ecstatic  over  any- 
c  33 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

thing.  Every  excess,  even  in  a  good  feeling, 
jarred  upon  him ;  '  that 's  savage,  savage,'  he 
would  say  with  a  faint  shrug,  half  closing  his 
golden  eyes.  Marvellous  were  those  eyes  of 
Fustov's !  They  invariably  expressed  sym- 
pathy, good-will,  even  devotion.  It  was  only 
at  a  later  period  that  I  noticed  that  the 
expression  of  his  eyes  resulted  solely  from 
their  setting,  that  it  never  changed,  even  when 
he  was  sipping  his  soup  or  smoking  a  cigar. 
His  preciseness  became  a  byword  between 
us.  His  grandmother,  indeed,  had  been  a 
German.  Nature  had  endowed  him  with  all 
sorts  of  talents.  He  danced  capitally,  was  a 
dashing  horseman,  and  a  first-rate  swimmer ; 
did  carpentering,  carving  and  joinery,  bound 
books  and  cut  out  silhouettes,  painted  in 
watercolours  nosegays  of  flowers  or  Napoleon 
in  profile  in  a  blue  uniform  ;  played  the  zither 
with  feeling  ;  knew  a  number  of  tricks,  with 
cards  and  without ;  and  had  a  fair  knowledge 
of  mechanics,  physics,  and  chemistry ;  but 
everything  only  up  to  a  certain  point.  Only 
for  languages  he  had  no  great  facility :  even 
French  he  spoke  rather  badly.  He  spoke  in 
general  little,  and  his  share  in  our  students' 
discussions  was  mostly  limited  to  the  bright 
sympathy  of  his  glance  and  smile.  To  the 
fair  sex  Fustov  was  attractive,  undoubtedly, 
but  on  this  subject,  of  such  importance  among 
34 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

young  people,  he  did  not  care  to  enlarge,  and 
fully  deserved  the  nickname  given  him  by  his 
comrades,  'the  discreet  Don  Juan.'  I  was  not 
dazzled  by  Fustov ;  there  was  nothing  in  him 
to  dazzle,  but  I  prized  his  affection,  though 
in  reality  it  was  only  manifested  by  his  never 
refusing  to  see  me  when  I  called.  To  my 
mind  Fustov  was  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world.  His  life  ran  so  very  smoothly.  His 
mother,  brothers,  sisters,  aunts,  and  uncles  all 
adored  him,  he  was  on  exceptionally  good 
terms  with  all  of  them,  and  enjoyed  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  paragon  in  his  family. 


IV 

One  day  I  went  round  to  him  rather  early 
and  did  not  find  him  in  his  study.  He  called 
to  me  from  the  next  room  ;  sounds  of  panting 
and  splashing  reached  me  from  there.  Every 
morning  Fustov  took  a  cold  shower-bath  and 
afterwards  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  practised 
gymnastic  exercises,  in  which  he  had  attained 
remarkable  proficiency.  Excessive  anxiety 
about  one's  physical  health  he  did  not  approve 
of,  but  he  did  not  neglect  necessary  care. 
('  Don't  neglect  yourself,  don't  over-excite 
yourself,  work  in  moderation,'  was  his  pre- 
cept.) Fustov  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance, 
35 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

when  the  outer  door  of  the  room  where  I  was 
waiting  flew  wide  open,  and  there  walked  in  a 
man  about  fifty,  wearing  a  bluish  uniform.  He 
was  a  stout,  squarely -built  man  with  milky- 
whitish  eyes  in  a  dark-red  face  and  a  perfect 
cap  of  thick,  grey,  curly  hair.  This  person 
stopped  short,  looked  at  me,  opened  his  mouth 
wide,  and  with  a  metallic  chuckle,  he  gave 
himself  a  smart  slap  on  his  haunch,  kicking 
his  leg  up  in  front  as  he  did  so. 

'Ivan  Demianitch?'  my  friend  inquired 
through  the  door. 

'  The  same,  at  your  service,'  the  new  comer 
responded.  '  What  are  you  up  to  ?  At  your 
toilette?  That's  right!  that's  right!'  (The 
voice  of  the  man  addressed  as  Ivan  Demianitch 
had  the  same  harsh,  metallic  note  as  his  laugh.) 
'  I  've  trudged  all  this  way  to  give  your  little 
brother  his  lesson;  and  he's  got  a  cold,  you 
know,  and  does  nothing  but  sneeze.  He  can't 
do  his  work.  So  I  've  looked  in  on  you  for 
a  bit  to  warm  myself.' 

Ivan  Demianitch  laughed  again  the  same 
strange  guffaw,  again  dealt  himself  a  sounding 
smack  on  the  leg,  and  pulling  a  check  hand- 
kerchief out  of  his  pocket,  blew  his  nose  noisily, 
ferociously  rolling  his  eyes,  spat  into  the  hand- 
kerchief, and  ejaculated  with  the  whole  force 
of  his  lungs  :  '  Tfoo-o-o  ! ' 

Fustov  came  into  the  room,  and  shaking 
36 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

hands  with   both  of  us,  asked  us   if  we  were 
acquainted. 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it ! '  Ivan  Dcmianitch  boomed 
at  once :  '  the  veteran  of  the  year  twelve  has 
not  that  honour  ! ' 

Fustov  mentioned  my  name  first,  then,  indi- 
cating the  'veteran  of  the  year  twelve,'  he  pro- 
nounced :  '  Ivan  Demianitch  Ratsch,  professor 
of  .  .  .  various  subjects.' 

'  Precisely  so,  various  they  are,  precisely,' 
Mr.  Ratsch  chimed  in.  '  Come  to  think  of  it, 
what  is  there  I  haven't  taught,  and  that  I  'm 
not  teaching  now,  for  that  matter !  Mathe- 
matics and  geography  and  statistics  and 
Italian  book-keeping,  ha-ha  ha-ha  !  and  music  ! 
You  doubt  it,  my  dear  sir?' — he  pounced  sud- 
denly upon  me — 'ask  Alexander  Daviditch  if 
I  'm  not  first-rate  on  the  bassoon.  I  should  be  a 
poor  sort  of  Bohemian — Czech,  I  should  say — if 
I  weren't !  Yes,  sir,  I  'm  a  Czech,  and  my  native 
place  is  ancient  Prague !  By  the  way,  Alex- 
ander Daviditch,  why  haven't  we  seen  you  for 
so  long !  We  ought  to  have  a  little  duet  ,  .  . 
ha-ha  !     Really  I ' 

'  I  was  at  your  place  the  day  before  yester- 
day, Ivan  Demianitch,'  replied  Fustov. 

'  But  I  call  that  a  long  while,  ha-ha  ! ' 

When  Mr.  Ratsch  laughed,  his  white  eyes 
shifted  from  side  to  side  in  a  strange,  restless 
way. 

37 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'You're  surprised,  young  man,  I  see,  at 
my  behaviour,'  he  addressed  me  again.  '  But 
that's  because  you  don't  understand  my 
temperament.  You  must  just  ask  our  good 
friend  here,  Alexander  Daviditch,  to  tell  you 
about  me.  What '11  he  tell  you?  He'll  tell 
you  old  Ratsch  is  a  simple,  good-hearted  chap, 
a  regular  Russian,  in  heart,  if  not  in  origin, 
ha-ha!  At  his  christening  named  Johann 
Dietrich,  but  always  called  Ivan  Demianitch ! 
What 's  in  my  mind  pops  out  on  my  tongue  ; 
I  wear  my  heart,  as  they  say,  on  my  sleeve. 
Ceremony  of  all  sorts  I  know  naught  about 
and  don't  want  to  neither !  Can't  bear  it ! 
You  drop  in  on  me  one  day  of  an  evening, 
and  you  '11  see  for  yourself.  My  good  woman 
— my  wife,  that  is — has  no  nonsense  about  her 
either;  she'll  cook  and  bake  you  .  .  .  some- 
thing wonderful !  Alexander  Daviditch,  isn't 
it  the  truth  I'm  telling?' 

Fustov  only  smiled,  and  I  remained  silent. 

*  Don't  look  down  on  the  old  fellow,  but 
come  round,'  pursued  Mr.  Ratsch.  '  But 
now  .  .  .  '  (he  pulled  a  fat  silver  watch  out  of 
his  pocket  and  put  it  up  to  one  of  his  goggle 
eyes) '  I  'd  better  be  toddling  on,  I  suppose.  I  've 
another  chick  expecting  me.  .  .  .  Devil  knows 
what  I  'm  teaching  him,  .  .  .  mythology,  by 
God  !  And  he  lives  a  long  way  off,  the  rascal, 
at  the  Red  Gate  !  No  matter  ;  I  '11  toddle  off 
38 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

on  foot.  Thanks  to  your  brother's  cutting 
his  lesson,  I  shall  be  the  fifteen  kopecks  for 
sledge  hire  to  the  good !  Ha-ha !  A  very 
good  day  to  you,  gentlemen,  till  we  meet 
again  !  .  .  .  Eh  ?  .  .  .  We  must  have  a  little 
duet!'  Mr.  Ratsch  bawled  from  the  passage 
putting  on  his  goloshes  noisily,  and  for  the  last 
time  we  heard  his  metallic  laugh. 


'What  a  strange  man!'  I  said,  turning  to 
Fustov,  who  had  already  set  to  work  at  his 
turning-lathe.  'Can  he  be  a  foreigner?  He 
speaks  Russian  so  fluently.' 

'  He  is  a  foreigner ;  only  he 's  been  thirty 
years  in  Russia.  As  long  ago  as  1802,  some 
prince  or  other  brought  him  from  abroad  .  .  . 
in  the  capacity  of  secretary  .  .  .  more  likely, 
valet,  one  would  suppose.  He  does  speak 
Russian  fluently,  certainly.' 

'  With  such  go,  such  far-fetched  turns  and 
phrases,'  I  put  in. 

'Well,  yes.  Only  very  unnaturally  too. 
They're  all  like  that,  these  Russianised 
Germans.' 

'  But  he's  a  Czech,  isn't  he?* 

'  I  don't  know  ;  may  be.  He  talks  German 
with  his  wife.' 

39 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

'And  why  does  he  call  himself  a  veteran  of  the 
year  twelve?     Was  he  in  the  militia,  or  what?' 

'  In  the  militia  !  indeed  !  At  the  time  of  the 
fire  he  remained  in  Moscow  and  lost  all  his 
property.  .  .  .  That  was  all  he  did.' 

'  But  what  did  he  stay  in  Moscow  for?' 

Fustov  still  went  on  with  his  turning. 

*  The  Lord  knows.  I  have  heard  that  he  was 
a  spy  on  our  side  ;  but  that  must  be  nonsense. 
But  it 's  a  fact  that  he  received  compensation 
from  the  treasury  for  his  losses.' 

'  He  wears  some  sort  of  uniform.  ...  I 
suppose  he 's  in  government  service  then  ? ' 

*  Yes.  Professor  in  the  cadet's  corps.  He 
has  the  rank  of  a  petty  councillor.' 

'  What 's  his  wife  like  .-' ' 

'  A    German    settled    here,    daughter    of    a 
sausagemaker  ...  or  butcher  .  .  .' 
'  And  do  you  often  go  to  see  him  ? ' 
'Yes.' 

'  What,  is  it  pleasant  there  ?  ' 
'  Rather  pleasant.' 

*  Has  he  any  children  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  Three  by  the  German,  and  a  son  and 
daughter  by  his  first  wife.' 

*  And  how  old  is  the  eldest  daughter  ? ' 
'  About  five-and-twenty.' 

1  fancied  Fustov  bent  lower  over  his  lathe, 
and    the    wheel     turned     more    rapidly,    and 
hummed  under  the  even  strokes  of  his  feet. 
40 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

*  Is  she  good-looking  ? ' 

'That's  a  matter  of  taste.  She  has  a  re- 
markable face,  and  she 's  altogether  ...  a 
remarkable  person.' 

'  Aha  ! '  thought  I.  Fustov  continued  his 
work  with  special  earnestness,  and  to  my  next 
question  he  only  responded  by  a  grunt. 

*  I  must  make  her  acquaintance,'  I  decided. 


VI 


A  FEW  days  later,  Fustov  and  I  set  ofif  to  Mr. 
Ratsch's  to  spend  the  evening.  He  lived  in  a 
wooden  house  with  a  big  yard  and  garden,  in 
Krivoy  Place  near  the  Pretchistensky  boulevard. 
He  came  out  into  the  passage,  and  meeting  us 
with  his  characteristic  jarring  guffaw  and  noise, 
led  us  at  once  into  the  drawing-room,  where  he 
presented  me  to  a  stout  lady  in  a  skimpy  canvas 
gown,  Eleonora  Karpovna,  his  wife.  Eleonora 
Karpovna  had  most  likely  in  her  first  youth 
been  possessed  of  what  the  French  for  some 
unknown  reason  call  bcauti  du  diable^  that  is  to 
say,  freshness  ;  but  when  I  made  her  acquaint- 
ance, she  suggested  involuntarily  to  the  mind 
a  good-sized  piece  of  meat,  freshly  laid  by 
the  butcher  on  a  clean  marble  table.  De- 
signedly I  used  the  word  'clean' ;  not  only  our 
hostess  herself  seemed  a  model  of  cleanliness, 
41 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

but  everything  about  her,  everything  in  the 
house  positively  shone,  and  glittered ;  every- 
thing had  been  scoured,  and  polished,  and 
washed  :  the  samovar  on  the  round  table 
flashed  like  fire ;  the  curtains  before  the 
windows,  the  table-napkins  were  crisp  with 
starch,  as  were  also  the  little  frocks  and  shirts 
of  Mr.  Ratsch's  four  children  sitting  there,  stout, 
chubby  little  creatures,  exceedingly  like  their 
mother,  with  coarsely  moulded,  sturdy  faces, 
curls  on  their  foreheads,  and  red,  shapeless 
fingers.  All  the  four  of  them  had  rather  flat 
noses,  large,  swollen-looking  lips,  and  tiny,  light- 
grey  eyes. 

'Here's  my  squadron!'  cried  Mr.  Ratsch, 
laying  his  heavy  hand  on  the  children's  heads 
one  after  another.  '  Kolia,  Olga,  Sashka  and 
Mashka !  This  one's  eight,  this  one's  seven, 
that  one 's  four,  and  this  one 's  only  two  !  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!  As  you  can  see,  my  wife  and  I  haven't 
wasted  our  time!     Eh,  Eleonora  Karpovna?' 

'You  always  say  things  like  that,' observed 
Eleonora  Karpovna  and  she  turned  away. 

'And  she's  bestowed  such  Russian  names  on 
her  squallers ! '  Mr.  Ratsch  pursued.  'The 
next  thing,  she'll  have  them  all  baptized  into 
the  Orthodox  Church  !  Yes,  by  Jove  !  She  's 
so  Slavonic  in  her  sympathies,  'pon  my  soul, 
she  is,  though  she  is  of  German  blood  !  Eleo- 
nora Karpovna,  are  you  Slavonic  ?  ' 
4* 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Eleonora  Karpovna  lost  her  temper. 

'  I  'm  a  petty  councillor's  wife,  that 's  what  I 
am  !  And  so  I  'm  a  Russian  lady  and  all  you 
may  say  .  .  .' 

'  There,  the  way  she  loves  Russia,  it's  simply 
awful ! '  broke  in  Ivan  Demianitch.  'A  perfect 
volcano,  ho,  ho!' 

'  Well,  and  what  of  it  ? '  pursued  Eleonora 
Karpovna.  '  To  be  sure  I  love  Russia,  for 
where  else  could  I  obtain  noble  rank  ?  And 
my  children  too  are  nobly  born,  you  know. 
Kolia,  sitze  ruhig  mit  den  Fussen  !' 

Ratsch  waved  his  hand  to  her. 

'  There,  there,  princess,  don't  excite  yourself! 
But  where 's  the  nobly  born  Viktor?  To  be 
sure,  he's  always  gadding  about !  He'll  come 
across  the  inspector  one  of  these  fine  days  ! 
He  '11  give  him  a  talking-to !  Das  ist  ein 
Bummler,  Fiktor ! ' 

'  Dem  Fiktov  kann  ich  nicht  kommandiren, 
Ivan  Demianitch.  Sie  wissen  wohl ! '  grumbled 
Eleonora  Karpovna. 

I  looked  at  Fustov,  as  though  wishing  finally 
to  arrive  at  what  induced  him  to  visit  such 
people  .  .  .  but  at  that  instant  there  came  into 
the  room  a  tall  girl  in  a  black  dress,  the  elder 
daughter  of  Mr.  Ratsch,  to  whom  Fustov  had 
referred.  ...  I  perceived  the  explanation  of 
my  friend's  frequent  visits. 


43 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 


VII 


There  is  somewhere,  I  remember,  in  Shake- 
speare, something  about  *a  white  dove  in  a 
flock  of  black  crows ' ;  that  was  just  the  im- 
pression made  on  me  by  the  girl,  who  entered 
the  room.  Between  the  world  surrounding  her 
and  herself  there  seemed  to  be  too  little  in 
common ;  she  herself  seemed  secretly  be- 
wildered and  wondering  how  she  had  come 
there.  All  the  members  of  Mr.  Ratsch's  family 
looked  self-satisfied,  simple-hearted,  healthy 
creatures  ;  her  beautiful,  but  already  careworn, 
face  bore  the  traces  of  depression,  pride  and  mor- 
bidity. The  others,  unmistakable  plebeians, 
were  unconstrained  in  their  manners,  coarse  per- 
haps, but  simple  ;  but  a  painful  uneasiness  was 
manifest  in  all  her  indubitably  aristocratic 
nature.  In  her  very  exterior  there  was  no  trace 
of  the  type  characteristic  of  the  German  race  ; 
she  recalled  rather  the  children  of  the  south. 
The  excessively  thick,  lustreless  black  hair,  the 
hollow,  black,  lifeless  but  beautiful  eyes,  the 
low,  prominent  brow,  the  aquiline  nose,  the 
livid  pallor  of  the  smooth  skin,  a  certain  tragic 
line  near  the  delicate  lips,  and  in  the  slightly 
sunken  cheeks,  something  abrupt,  and  at  the 
same  time  helpless  in  the  movements,  elegance 
without  gracefulness  ...  in  Italy  all  this  would 
44 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

not  have  struck  me  as  exceptional,  but  in 
Moscow,  near  the  Pretchistensky  boulevard,  it 
simply  astonished  me  !  I  got  up  from  my  seat 
on  her  entrance ;  she  flung  me  a  swift,  uneasy 
glance,  and  dropping  her  black  eyelashes,  sat 
down  near  the  window  '  like  Tatiana.'  (Push- 
kin's Oniegin  was  then  fresh  in  every  one's  mind.) 
I  glanced  at  Fustov,  but  my  friend  was  standing 
with  his  back  to  me,  taking  a  cup  of  tea  from 
the  plump  hands  of  Eleonora  Karpovna,  I 
noticed  further  that  the  girl  as  she  came  in 
seemed  to  bring  with  her  a  breath  of  slight 
physical  chillness  .  .  .  'What  a  statue!'  was 
my  thought. 


VIII 

'PlOTR  Gavrilitch,'  thundered  Mr.  Ratsch, 
turning  to  me,  '  let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
.  .  .  to  my  .  .  .  my  number  one,  ha,  ha,  ha! 
to  Susanna  Ivanovna  ! ' 

I  bowed  in  silence,  and  thought  at  once : 
'Why,  the  name  too  is  not  the  same  sort  as 
the  others,'  while  Susanna  rose  slightly,  with- 
out smiling  or  loosening  her  tightly  clasped 
hands. 

'And  how  about  the  duet?'  Ivan  Demia- 
nitch  pursued:  'Alexander  Daviditch?  eh? 
benefactor!  Your  zither  was  left  with  us,  and 
45 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

I've  got  the  bassoon  out  of  its  case  already. 
Let  us  make  sweet  music  for  the  honourable 
company  ! '  (Mr.  Ratsch  liked  to  display  his 
Russian  ;  he  was  continually  bursting  out  wilh 
expressions,  such  as  those  which  are  strewn 
broadcast  about  the  ultra-national  poems  of 
Prince  Viazemsky.)  'What  do  you  say? 
Carried?'  cried  Ivan  Demianitch,  seeing  Fustov 
made  no  objection.  '  Kolka,  march  into  the 
study,  and  look  sharp  with  the  music-stand  ! 
Olga,  this  way  with  the  zither!  And  oblige  us 
with  candles  for  the  stands,  better-half ! '  (Mr. 
Ratsch  turned  round  and  round  in  the  room 
like  a  top.)  '  Piotr  Gavrilitch,  you  like  music, 
hey  ?  If  you  don't  care  for  it,  you  must 
amuse  yourself  with  conversation,  only  mind, 
not  above  a  whisper  !  Ha,  ha  ha  !  But  what 
ever 's  become  of  that  silly  chap,  Viktor  ?  He 
ought  to  be  here  to  listen  too  !  You  spoil  him 
completely,  Eleonora  Karpovna.' 

Eleonora  Karpovna  fired  up  angrily. 

•  Aber  was  kann  ich  denn,  Ivan  Demia- 
nitch .  .  .' 

'  All  right,  all  right,  don't  squabble  !  Blcibe 
ruhig,  hast  verstanden?  Alexander  Daviditch  ! 
at  your  service,  sir  !' 

The  children  had  promptly  done  as  their 
father  had  told  them.  The  music-stands  were 
set  up,  the  music  began.  I  have  already  men- 
tioned that  Fustov  played  the  zither  extremely 
46 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

well,  but  that  instrument  has  always  produced 
the  most  distressing  impression  upon  me.  I 
have  always  fancied,  and  I  fancy  still,  that  there 
is  imprisoned  in  the  zither  the  soul  of  a  decrepit 
Jew  money-lender,  and  that  it  emits  nasal 
whines  and  complaints  against  the  merciless 
musician  who  forces  it  to  utter  sounds.  Mr. 
Ratsch's  performance,  too,  was  not  calculated 
to  give  me  much  pleasure  ;  moreover,  his  face 
became  suddenly  purple,  and  assumed  a  malig- 
nant expression,  while  his  whitish  eyes  rolled 
viciously,  as  though  he  were  just  about  to 
murder  some  one  with  his  bassoon,  and  were 
swearing  and  threatening  by  way  of  prelimi- 
nary, puffing  out  chokingly  husky,  coarse 
notes  one  after  another.  I  placed  myself  near 
Susanna,  and  waiting  for  a  momentary  pause, 
I  asked  her  if  she  were  as  fond  of  music  as  her 
papa. 

She  turned  away,  as  though  I  had  given  her 
a  shove,  and  pronounced  abruptly,  '  Who?' 

'  Your  father,'  I  repeated,  '  Mr.  Ratsch.' 

'  Mr.  Ratsch  is  not  my  father.' 

'  Not  your  father  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ...  I 
must  have  misunderstood  . .  .  But  I  remember, 
Alexander  Daviditch  .  .  .' 

Susanna  looked  at  me  intently  and  shyly. 

'  You  misunderstood  Mr.  Fustov.  Mr.  Ratsch 
is  my  stepfather.' 

I  was  silent  for  a  while. 
47 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

*  And  you  don't  care  for  music  ? '  I  began 
again. 

Susanna  glanced  at  me  again.  Undoubtedly 
there  was  something  suggesting  a  wild  creature 
in  her  eyes.  She  obviously  had  not  expected 
nor  desired  the  continuation  of  our  conversa- 
tion. 

'  I  did  not  say  that,'  she  brought  out  slowly. 

*  Troo-too-too-too-too-oo-oo  .  .  .'  the  bas- 
soon growled  with  startling  fury,  executing 
the  final  flourishes.  I  turned  round,  caught 
sight  of  the  red  neck  of  Mr.  Ratsch,  swollen 
like  a  boa-constrictor's,  beneath  his  projecting 
ears,  and  very  disgusting  I  thought  him. 

*  But  that  .  .  .  instrument  you  surely  do  not 
care  for,'  I  said  in  an  undertone. 

*  No  ...  I  don't  care  for  it,'  she  responded, 
as  though  catching  my  secret  hint. 

'  Oho ! '  thought  I,  and  felt,  as  it  were, 
delighted  at  something. 

'  Susanna  Ivanovna,'  Eleonora  Karpovna 
announced  suddenly  in  her  German  Russian, 
'  music  greatly  loves,  and  herself  very  beauti- 
fully plays  the  piano,  only  she  likes  not  to 
play  the  piano  when  she  is  greatly  pressed  to 
play.' 

Susanna  made  Eleonora  Karpovna  no  reply 

— she   did    not  even    look  at  her — only  there 

was  a  faint  movement  of  her  eyes,  under  their 

dropped   Hds^  in   her   direction.      From    this 

48 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

movement  alone — this  movement  of  her  pupils 
— I  could  perceive  what  was  the  nature  of  the 
feeling  Susanna  cherished  for  the  second  wife 
of  her  stepfather  .  .  And  again  I  was  delighted 
at  something. 

Meanwhile  the  duet  was  over.  Fustov  got 
up  and  with  hesitating  footsteps  approached 
the  window,  near  which  Susanna  and  I  were 
sitting,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  received  from 
Lengold's  the  music  that  he  had  promised  to 
order  her  from  Petersburg. 

'Selections  from  Robert  le  Diablel  he  added, 
turning  to  me,  '  from  that  new  opera  that 
every  one  's  making  such  a  fuss  about.' 

'  No,  I  haven't  got  it  yet,'  answered  Susanna, 
and  turning  round  with  her  face  to  the  window 
she  whispered  hurriedly.  '  Please,  Alexander 
Daviditch,  I  entreat  you,  don't  make  me  play 
to-day.     I  don't  feel  in  the  mood  a  bit.' 

'  What 's  that  ?  Robert  le  Diable  of  Meyer- 
beer?' bellowed  Ivan  Demianitch,  coming  up 
to  us  :  *  I  don't  mind  betting  it 's  a  first-class 
article!  He's  a  Jew,  and  all  Jews,  like  all 
Czechs,  are  born  musicians.  Especially  Jews. 
That 's  right,  isn't  it,  Susanna  Ivanovna  ? 
Hey?     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!' 

In  Mr.  Ratsch's  last  words,  and  this  time 
even  in  his  guffaw,  there  could  be  heard  some- 
thing more  than  his  usual  bantering  tone — the 
desire  to  wound  was  evident.  So,  at  least,  I 
D  49 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

fancied,  and  so  Susanna  understood  him.  She 
started  instinctively,  flushed  red,  and  bit  her 
lower  lip.  A  spot  of  light,  like  the  gleam  of  a 
tear,  flashed  on  her  eyelash,  and  rising  quickly, 
she  went  out  of  the  room. 

'  Where  are  you  off  to,  Susanna  Ivanovna  ? ' 
Mr.  Ratsch  bawled  after  her. 

'  Let  her  be,  Ivan  Demianitch,'  put  in 
Eleonora  Karpovna.  '  Wenn  sie  einmal  so 
etwas  im  Kopfe  hat  .  .  .' 

'A  nervous  temperament,'  Ratsch  pro- 
nounced, rotating  on  his  heels,  and  slapping 
himself  on  the  haunch,  'suffers  with  the p/exus 
so/arts.  Oh  !  you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Piotr  Gavrilitch !  I  've  had  a  go  at  anatomy 
too,  ha,  ha  !  I  'm  even  a  bit  of  a  doctor!  You 
ask  Eleonora  Karpovna  ...  I  cure  all  her 
little  ailments !  Oh,  I  'm  a  famous  hand  at 
that ! ' 

'  You  must  for  ever  be  joking,  Ivan  Demia- 
nitch,' the  latter  responded  with  displeasure, 
while  Fustov,  laughing  and  gracefully  swaying 
to  and  fro,  looked  at  the  husband  and  wife. 

'  And  why  not  be  joking,  mein  Mutterchen  ?' 
retorted  Ivan  Demianitch.  '  Life  's  given  us 
for  use,  and  still  more  for  beauty,  as  some 
celebrated  poet  has  observed.  Kolka,  wipe 
your  nose,  little  savage  ! ' 


SO 


AN    UNHAPPY    GIRL 


IX 


•  I  WAS  put  in  a  very  awkward  position  this 
evening  through  your  doing,'  I  said  the  same 
evening  to  Fustov,  on  the  way  home  with  him. 
'  You  told  me  that  that  girl — what 's  her  name  ? 
— Susanna,  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Ratsch, 
but  she  's  his  stepdaughter.' 

'  Really !  Did  I  tell  you  she  was  his 
daughter?     But  .  .  .  isn't  it  all  the  same?' 

'That  Ratsch,'  I  went  on.  ...  'O  Alex- 
ander, how  I  detest  him  !  Did  you  notice 
the  peculiar  sneer  with  which  he  spoke  of  Jews 
before  her?     Is  she  ...  a  Jewess?' 

Fustov  walked  ahead,  swinging  his  arms ; 
it  was  cold,  the  snow  was  crisp,  like  salt,  under 
our  feet. 

'  Yes,  I  recollect,  I  did  hear  something  of  the 
sort,'  he  observed  at  last.  ,  .  .  '  Her  mother,  I 
fancy,  was  of  Jewish  extraction.' 

'Then  Mr.  Ratsch  must  have  married  a 
widow  the  first  time  ?' 

•  Probably.' 

*  H'm  !  .  .  .  And  that  Viktor,  who  didn't 
come  in  this  evening,  is  his  stepson  too  ? ' 

*No  .  .  .  he's  his  real  son.  But,  as  you 
know,  I  don't  enter  into  other  people's  affairs, 
and  I  don't  like  asking  questions.  I  'm  not 
inquisitive.' 

SI 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

I  bit  my  tongue.  Fustov  still  pushed  on 
ahead.  As  wc  got  near  home,  I  overtook  him 
and  peeped  into  his  face. 

'Oh!'  I  queried,  'is  Susanna  really  so 
musical?' 

Fustov  frowned. 

*  She  plays  the  piano  vi^ell,'  he  said  between 
his  teeth.  '  Only  she's  very  shy,  I  warn  you  ! ' 
he  added  with  a  slight  grimace.  He  seemed 
to  be  regretting  having  made  me  acquainted 
with  her. 

I  said  nothing  and  we  parted. 


X 


Next  morning  I  set  off  again  to  Fustov's.  To 
spend  my  mornings  at  his  rooms  had  become 
a  necessity  for  me.  He  received  me  cordially, 
as  usual,  but  of  our  visit  of  the  previous 
evening — not  a  word  1  As  though  he  had 
taken  water  into  his  mouth,  as  they  say.  I 
began  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  last 
number  of  the  Telescope. 

A  person,  unknown  to  me,  came  into  the 
room.  It  turned  out  to  be  Mr.  Ratsch's  son, 
the  Viktor  whose  absence  had  been  censured 
by  his  father  the  evening  before. 

He  was  a  young  man,  about  eighteen,  but 
already  looked  dissipated  and  unhealthy,  with 
52 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

a  mawkishly  insolent  grin  on  his  unclean  face, 
and  an  expression  of  fatigue  in  his  swollen 
eyes.  He  was  like  his  father,  only  his  features 
were  smaller  and  not  without  a  certain  pretti- 
ness.  But  in  this  very  prettiness  there  was 
something  offensive.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
very  slovenly  way ;  there  were  buttons  off  his 
undergraduate's  coat,  one  of  his  boots  had  a 
hole  in  it,  and  he  fairly  reeked  of  tobacco. 

'  How  d'ye  do,'  he  said  in  a  sleepy  voice, 
with  those  peculiar  twitchings  of  the  head  and 
shoulders  which  I  have  always  noticed  in 
spoilt  and  conceited  young  men.  '  I  meant 
to  go  to  the  University,  but  here  I  am.  Sort 
of  oppression  on  my  chest.  Give  us  a  cigar.' 
He  walked  right  across  the  room,  listlessly 
dragging  his  feet,  and  keeping  his  hands  in 
his  trouser-pockets,  and  sank  heavily  upon  the 
sofa. 

'  Have  you  caught  cold  ? '  asked  Fustov, 
and  he  introduced  us  to  each  other.  We 
were  both  students,  but  were  in  different 
faculties. 

'  No !  .  .  .  Likely  I  Yesterday,  I  must 
own  .  .'  (here  Ratsch  junior  smiled,  again 
not  without  a  certain  prettiness,  though  he 
showed  a  set  of  bad  teeth)  '  I  was  drunk, 
awfully  drunk.  Yes'  —  he  lighted  a  cigar 
and  cleared  his  throat — '  Obihodov's  farewell 
supper.' 

53 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

'  Where 's  he  going  ?  * 

'  To  the  Caucasus,  and  taking  his  young 
lady  with  him.  You  know  the  black-eyed 
girl,  with  the  freckles.     Silly  fool ! ' 

*  Your  father  was  asking  after  you  yesterday,' 
observed  Fustov. 

Viktor  spat  aside.  '  Yes,  I  heard  about  it. 
You  were  at  our  den  yesterday.  Well,  music, 
eh?' 

'  As  usual.' 

'  And  she  .  .  .  with  a  new  visitor '  (here  he 
pointed  with  his  head  in  my  direction)  'she 
gave  herself  airs,  I  '11  be  bound.  Wouldn't 
play,  eh  ? ' 

*  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ?  '    Fustov  asked. 
'Why,    of    the     most     honoured     Susanna 

Ivanovna,  of  course  ! ' 

Viktor  lolled  still  more  comfortably,  put 
his  arm  up  round  his  head,  gazed  at  his  own 
hand,  and  cleared  his  throat  hoarsely. 

I  glanced  at  Fustov.  He  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  as  though  giving  me  to  under- 
stand that  it  was  no  use  talking  to  such  a 
dolt 


XI 


Viktor,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  fell  to  talking, 

deliberately    and    through    his    nose,   of    the 

54 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

theatre,  of  two  actors  he  knew,  of  a  certain 
Serafrina  Serafrinovna,  who  had  '  made  a  fool ' 
of  him,  of  the  new  professor,  R.,  whom  he 
called  a  brute.  '  Because,  only  fancy,  what  a 
monstrous  notion  !  Every  lecture  he  begins 
with  calling  over  the  students'  names,  and  he's 
reckoned  a  liberal  too !  I  'd  have  all  your 
liberals  locked  up  in  custody !  '  and  turning  at 
last  his  full  face  and  whole  body  towards 
Fustov,  he  brought  out  in  a  half-plaintive, 
half-ironical  voice :  '  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
something,  Alexander  Daviditch.  .  .  .  Couldn't 
you  talk  my  governor  round  somehow  ?  .  .  .  You 
play  duets  with  him,  you  know.  .  .  .  Here  he 
gives  me  five  miserable  blue  notes  a  month. 
.  .  .  What 's  the  use  of  that !  Not  enough  for 
tobacco.  And  then  he  goes  on  about  my  not 
making  debts  !  I  should  like  to  put  him  in 
my  place,  and  then  we  should  see !  I  don't 
come  in  for  pensions,  not  like  some  peopled 
(Viktor  pronounced  these  last  words  with 
peculiar  emphasis.)  'But  he's  got  a  lot  of 
tin,  I  know!  It's  no  use  his  whining  about 
hard  times,  there 's  no  taking  me  in.  No  fear  ! 
He 's  made  a  snug  little  pile  ! ' 

Fustov  looked  dubiously  at  Victor. 

'  If  you  like,'  he  began,  •  I  '11  speak  to  your 
father.  Or,  if  you  like  .  .  .  meanwhile  ...  a 
trifling  sum.  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  no !  Better  get  round  the  governor.  .  , 
55 


AN   UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Though,'  added  Viktor,  scratching  his  nose 
with  all  his  fingers  at  once,  'you  might 
hand  over  five-and-twenty  roubles,  if  it 's  the 
same  to  you.  .  .  .  What's  the  blessed  total  I 
owe  you  ? ' 

'  You  've  borrowed  eighty  -  five  roubles  of 
me.' 

'Yes.  .  .  Well,  that's  all  right,  then  .  .  . 
make  it  a  hundred  and  ten.  I  '11  pay  it  all  in 
a  lump.' 

Fustov  went  into  the  next  room,  brought 
back  a  twenty-five-rouble  note  and  handed  it 
in  silence  to  Viktor.  The  latter  took  it, 
yawned  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  grumbled 
thanks,  and,  shrugging  and  stretching,  got 
up  from  the  sofa. 

'  Foo !  though  .  .  I'm  bored,'  he  muttered, 
'  might  as  well  turn  in  to  the  "  Italic." ' 

He  moved  towards  the  door. 

Fustov  looked  after  him.  He  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  himself. 

'  What  pension  were  you  alluding  to  just 
now,  Viktor  Ivanitch? '  he  asked  at  last. 

Viktor  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  put  on 
his  cap. 

'Oh,  don't  you  know?  Susanna  Ivanovna's 
pension.  .  .  .  She  gets  one.  An  awfully  curious 
story,  I  can  tell  you  !  I  '11  tell  it  you  one  of 
these  days.  Quite  an  affair,  'pon  my  soul, 
a  queer  affair.  But,  I  say,  the  governor,  you 
56 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

won't  forget  about  the  governor,  please !  His 
hide  is  thick,  of  course — German,  and  it's  had 
a  Russian  tanning  too,  still  you  can  get  through 
it.  Only,  mind  my  step-mother  Elcnorka's 
nowhere  about !  Dad  *s  afraid  of  her,  and 
she  wants  to  keep  everything  for  her  brats ! 
But  there,  you  know  your  way  about !  Good- 
bye ! ' 

'  Ugh,  what  a  low  beast  that  boy  is !  cried 
Fustov,  as  soon  as  the  door  had  slammed-to. 

His  face  was  burning,  as  though  from  the 
fire,  and  he  turned  away  from  me.  I  did  not 
question  him,  and  soon  retired. 


XII 

All  that  day  I  spent  in  speculating  about 
Fustov,  about  Susanna,  and  about  her  rela- 
tions. I  had  a  vague  feeling  of  something  like 
a  family  drama.  As  far  as  I  could  judge,  my 
friend  was  not  indifferent  to  Susanna.  But 
she?  Did  she  care  for  him?  Why  did  she 
seem  so  unhappy?  And  altogether,  what 
sort  of  creature  was  she?  These  questions 
were  continually  recurring  to  my  mind.  An 
obscure  but  strong  conviction  told  me  that  it 
would  be  no  use  to  apply  to  Fustov  foi  the 
57 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

solution  of  them.     It  ended  in  my  setting  off 
the  next  day  alone  to  Mr.  Ratsch's  house. 

I  felt  all  at  once  very  uncomfortable  and 
confused  directly  I  found  myself  in  the 
dark  little  passage.  '  She  won't  appear  even, 
very  likely,'  flashed  into  my  mind.  *  I  shall 
have  to  stop  with  the  repulsive  veteran  and 
his  cook  of  a  wife.  ,  .  .  And  indeed,  even  if 
she  does  show  herself,  what  of  it?  She  won't 
even  take  part  in  the  conversation.  .  .  .  She 
was  anything  but  warm  in  her  manner  to  me 
the  other  day.  Why  ever  did  I  come  ?  '  While 
I  was  making  these  reflections,  the  little  page 
ran  to  announce  my  presence,  and  in  the  ad- 
joining room,  after  two  or  three  wondering 
*  Who  is  it  ?  Who,  do  you  say  ? '  I  heard  the 
heavy  shuffling  of  slippers,  the  folding-door 
was  slightly  opened,  and  in  the  crack  between 
its  two  halves  was  thrust  the  face  of  Ivan 
Demianitch,  an  unkempt  and  grim-looking 
face.  It  stared  at  me  and  its  expression  did 
not  immediately  change.  .  .  .  Evidently,  Mr. 
Ratsch  did  not  at  once  recognise  me ;  but 
suddenly  his  cheeks  grew  rounder,  his  eyes 
narrower,  and  from  his  opening  mouth,  there 
burst,  together  with  a  guffaw,  the  exclama- 
tion :  *  Ah  1  my  dear  sir !  Is  it  you  ?  Pray 
walk  in  ! ' 

I  followed  him  all  the  more  unwillingly,  be- 
cause it  seemed  to  me  that  this  affable,  good- 
58 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

humoured  Mr.  Ratsch  was  inwardly  wishing 
me  at  the  devil.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  however.  He  led  me  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  in  the  drawing-room  who  should 
be  sitting  but  Susanna,  bending  over  an 
account-book?  She  glanced  at  me  with  her 
melancholy  eyes,  and  very  slightly  bit  the 
finger-nails  of  her  left  hand.  .  .  .  It  was  a  habit 
of  hers,  I  noticed,  a  habit  peculiar  to  nervous 
people.     There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room. 

'You  see,  sir,'  began  Mr.  Ratsch,  dealing 
himself  a  smack  on  the  haunch,  'what  you've 
found  Susanna  Ivanovna  and  me  busy  upon  : 
we're  at  our  accounts.  My  spouse  has  no 
great  head  for  arithmetic,  and  I,  I  must  own, 
try  to  spare  my  eyes.  I  can 't  read  without 
spectacles,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Let  the  young 
people  exert  themselves,  ha-ha  !  That's 
the  proper  thing.  But  there 's  no  need  of 
haste.  .  .  .  More  haste,  worse  speed  in  catch- 
ing fleas,  he-he ! ' 

Susanna  closed  the  book,  and  was  about  to 
leave  the  room. 

'  Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,'  began  Mr.  Ratsch. 
'It's  no  great  matter  if  you're  not  in  your 
best  dress,  .  .  .'  (Susanna  was  wearing  a 
very  old,  almost  childish,  frock  with  short 
sleeves.)  '  Our  dear  guest  is  not  a  stickler 
for  ceremony,  and  I  should  like  just  to  clear 
up  last  week.  .  .  ,  You  don't  mind?' — he  ad- 
59 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

dressed  me.     '  We  needn't  stand  on  ceremony 
with  you,  eh  ?' 

*  Please  don't  put  yourself  out  on  my 
account !'  I  cried. 

*  To  be  sure,  my  good  friend.  As  you  're 
aware,  the  late  Tsar  Alexey  Nikolavitch 
Romanoff  used  to  say,  "Time  is  for  business, 
but  a  minute  for  recreation!"  We'll  devote 
one  minute  only  to  that  same  business  .  .  . 
ha-ha  !  What  about  that  thirteen  roubles  and 
thirty  kopecks  ? '  he  added  in  a  low  voice, 
turning  his  back  on  me. 

'  Viktor  took  it  from  Eleonora  Karpovna  ;  he 
said  that  it  was  with  your  leave,'  Susanna 
replied,  also  in  a  low  voice. 

'  He  said  ...  he  said  .  .  .  my  leave  .  .  .' 
growled  Ivan  Demianitch.  'I'm  on  the  spot 
myself,  I  fancy.  Might  be  asked.  And  who's 
had  that  seventeen  roubles  ?  ' 

'The  upholsterer.' 

•Oh  .  .  .  the  upholsterer.    What 's  that  for?' 

'His  bill.' 

'  His  bill.  Show  me  ! '  He  pulled  the  book 
away  from  Susanna,  and  planting  a  pair  of 
round  spectacles  with  silver  rims  on  his  nose, 
he  began  passing  his  finger  along  the  lines. 
'The  upholsterer  .  .  .  the  upholsterer  .  .  .  You'd 
chuck  all  the  money  out  of  doors !  Nothing 
pleases  you  bettor !  .  .  .  Wie  die  Croaten  !  A 
bill  indeed !  But,  after  all,'  he  added  aloud, 
60 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

and  he  turned  round  facing  me  again,  and 
pulled  the  spectacles  off  his  nose,  '  why  do  this 
now?  1  can  go  into  these  wretched  details 
later.  Susanna  Ivanovna,  be  so  good  as  to  put 
away  that  account-book,  and  come  back  to  us 
and  enchant  our  kind  guest's  ears  with  your 
musical  accomplishments,  to  wit,  playing  on 
the  pianoforte  ,  .  .  Eh  ? ' 

Susanna  turned  away  her  head. 

*  I  should  be  very  happy,'  I  hastily  observed  ; 
•it  would  be  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  hear 
Susanna  Ivanovna  play.  But  I  would  not  for 
anything  in  the  world  be  a  trouble     .  .' 

'  Trouble,  indeed,  what  nonsense  !  Now  then, 
Susanna  Ivanovna,  eins,  zwei,  drei ! ' 

Susanna  made  no  response,  and  went  out. 


XIII 

I  HAD  not  expected  her  to  come  back  ;  but 
she  quickly  reappeared.  She  had  not  even 
changed  her  dress,  and  sitting  down  in  a 
corner,  she  looked  twice  intently  at  me. 
Whether  it  was  that  she  was  conscious  in  my 
manner  to  her  of  the  involuntary  respect,  in- 
explicable to  myself,  which,  more  than  curiosity, 
more  even  than  sympathy,  she  aroused  in  me, 
or  whether  she  was  in  a  softened  frame  of  mind 
that  day,  any  way,  she  suddenly  went  to  the 
6i 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

piano,  and  laying  her  hand  irresolutely  on  the 
keys,  and  turning  her  head  a  little  over  her 
shoulder  towards  me,  she  asked  what  I  would 
like  her  to  play.  Before  I  had  time  to  answer 
she  had  seated  herself,  taken  up  some  music, 
hurriedly  opened  it,  and  begun  to  play.  I 
loved  music  from  childhood,  but  at  that  time 
I  had  but  little  comprehension  of  it,  and  very 
slight  knowledge  of  the  works  of  the  great 
masters,  and  if  Mr.  Ratsch  had  not  grumbled 
with  some  dissatisfaction,  '  Aha  !  wieder  dieser 
Beethoven ! '  I  should  not  have  guessed  what 
Susanna  had  chosen.  It  was,  as  I  found  out 
afterwards,  the  celebrated  sonata  in  F  minor, 
opus  57.  Susanna's  playing  impressed  me 
more  than  I  can  say ;  I  had  not  expected  such 
force,  such  fire,  such  bold  execution.  At  the 
very  first  bars  of  the  intensely  passionate 
allegro,  the  beginning  of  the  sonata,  I  felt 
that  numbness,  that  chill  and  sweet  terror  of 
ecstasy,  which  instantaneously  enwrap  the  soul 
when  beauty  bursts  with  sudden  flight  upon  it. 
I  did  not  stir  a  limb  till  the  very  end.  I  kept 
wanting  —  and  not  daring  —  to  sigh.  I  was 
sitting  behind  Susanna ;  I  could  not  see  her 
face  ;  I  saw  only  from  time  to  time  her  long 
dark  hair  tossed  up  and  down  on  her  shoulders, 
her  figure  swaying  impulsively,  and  her  deli- 
cate arms  and  bare  elbows  swiftly,  and  rather 
angularly,  moving.  The  last  notes  died  away 
62 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

I  sighed  at  last.  Susanna  still  sat  before  the 
piano. 

'J a,  ja,' observed  Mr.  Ratsch,  who  had  also, 
however,  listened  with  attention  ;  '  ronnantische 
Musik !  That 's  all  the  fashion  nowadays. 
Only,  why  not  play  correctly  ?  Eh  ?  Put 
your  finger  on  two  notes  at  once — what 's 
that  for?  Eh?  To  be  sure,  all  we  care  for  is 
to  go  quickly,  quickly !  Turns  it  out  hotter, 
eh?  Hot  pancakes!'  he  bawled  like  a  street 
seller. 

Susanna  turned  slightly  towards  Mr.  Ratsch. 
I  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  profile.  The 
delicate  eyebrow  rose  high  above  the  down- 
cast eyelid,  an  unsteady  flush  overspread  the 
cheek,  the  little  ear  was  red  under  the  lock 
pushed  behind  it. 

'  I  have  heard  all  the  best  performers  with 
my  own  ears,'  pursued  Mr.  Ratsch,  suddenly 
frowning,  'and  compared  with  the  late  Field 
they  were  all — tfoo!  nil!  zero!!  Das  war  ein 
Kerl !  Und  ein  so  reines  Spiel  !  And  his  own 
compositions  the  finest  things  !  But  all  those 
now  "  tloo-too-too,"  and  "  tra-ta-ta,"  are  written, 
I  suppose,  more  for  beginners.  Da  braucht 
man  keine  Delicatesse  !  Bang  the  keys  any- 
how ...  no  matter!  It'll  turn  out  some 
how  !  Janitscharen  Musik  !  Pugh  ! '  (Ivan 
Demianitch  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief) '  But  I  don't  say  that  for  you, 
63 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

Susanna    Ivanovna ;     you    played    well,    and 
oughtn't  to  be  hurt  by  my  remarks.' 

'Every  one  has  his  own  taste,'  Susanna  said 
in  a  low  voice,  and  her  lips  were  trembling ; 
'but  your  remarks,  Ivan  Demianitch,  you  know, 
cannot  hurt  me.' 

'Oh!  of  course  not !  Only  don't  you  imagine 
— Mr.  Ratsch  turned  to  me — 'don't  you  imagine, 
my  young  friend,  that  that  comes  from  our 
excessive  good-nature  and  meekness  of  spirit ; 
it's  simply  that  we  fancy  ourselves  so  highly 
exalted  that — oo-oo  ! — we  can't  keep  our  cap 
on  our  head,  as  the  Russian  proverb  says,  and, 
of  course,  no  criticism  can  touch  us.  The  con- 
ceit, my  dear  sir,  the  conceit ! ' 

I  listened  in  surprise  to  Mr.  Ratsch.  Spite, 
the  bitterest  spite,  seemed  as  it  were  boiling 
over  in  every  word  he  uttered.  .  .  .  And  long 
it  must  have  been  rankling !  It  choked  him. 
He  tried  to  conclude  his  tirade  with  his  usual 
laugh,  and  fell  into  a  husky,  broken  cough 
instead.  Susanna  did  not  let  drop  a  syllable 
in  reply  to  him,  only  she  shook  her  head,  raised 
her  face,  and  clasping  her  elbows  with  her 
hands,  stared  straight  at  him.  In  the  depths 
of  her  fixed,  wide-open  eyes  the  hatred  of  long 
years  lay  smouldering  with  dim,  unquenchable 
fire.     I  felt  ill  at  case. 

'You  belong  to  two  different  musical  genera- 
tions,'   I    began,   with   an    effort   at   lightness 
64 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

wishing  by  this  lightness  to  suggest  that  I 
noticed  nothing,  'and  so  it  is  not  surprising 
that  you  do  not  agree  in  your  opinions.  .  .  . 
But  Ivan  Demianitch,  you  must  allow  me  to 
take  rather  .  .  .  the  side  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion. I  'm  an  outsider,  of  course ;  but  I  must 
confess  nothing  in  music  has  ever  made  such  an 
impression  on  me  as  the  ...  as  what  Susanna 
Ivanovna  has  just  played  us.' 

Ratsch  pounced  at  once  upon  me, 

•And  what  makes  you  suppose,'  he  roared, 
still  purple  from  the  fit  of  coughing,  '  that  we 
want  to  enlist  you  on  our  side?  We  don't 
want  that  at  all !  Freedom  for  the  free,  salva- 
tion for  the  saved  !  But  as  to  the  two  genera- 
tions, that's  right  enough  ;  we  old  folks  find  it 
hard  to  get  on  with  you  young  people,  very 
hard!  Our  ideas  don't  agree  in  anything: 
neither  in  art,  nor  in  life,  nor  even  in  morals; 
do  they,  Susanna  Ivanovna  ?  * 

Susanna  smiled  a  contemptuous  smile. 

'Especially  in  regard  to  morals,  as  you  say, 
our  ideas  do  not  agree,  and  cannot  agree,'  she 
responded,  and  something  menacing  seemed 
to  flit  over  her  brows,  while  her  lips  were  faintly 
trembling  as  before. 

'  Of  course !    of  course ! '   Ratsch   broke  in, 
*  I  'm  not  a  philosopher !    I  'm  not  capable  of .  . . 
rising  so  superior !     I  'm  a  plain  man,  swayed 
by  prejudices — oh  yes  ! ' 
E  65 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Susanna  smiled  again. 

*  I  think,  Ivan  Demianitch,  you  too  have 
sometimes  been  able  to  place  yourself  above 
what  are  called  prejudices.' 

'Wie  so?  How  so,  I  mean?  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean.' 

'  You  don't  know  what  I  mean  ?  Your 
memory 's  so  bad  ! ' 

Mr.  Ratsch  seemed  utterly  taken  aback. 

'  I   .  .  .   I  .  .  .'  he  repeated,  'I  ..." 

'  Yes,  you,  Mr.  Ratsch.' 

There  followed  a  brief  silence. 

'  Really,  upon  my  word  .  .  .'  Mr.  Ratsch 
was  beginning ;  '  how  dare  you  .  .  .  such 
insolence  .  .  .' 

Susanna  all  at  once  drew  herself  up  to  her 
full  height,  and  still  holding  her  elbows,  squeez- 
ing them  tight,  drumming  on  them  with  her 
fingers,  she  stood  still  facing  Ratsch.  She 
seemed  to  challenge  him  to  conflict,  to  stand 
up  to  meet  him.  Her  face  was  changed ;  it 
became  suddenly,  in  one  instant,  extraordinarily 
beautiful,  and  terrible  too  ;  a  sort  of  bright,  cold 
brilliance — the  brilliance  of  steel — gleamed  in 
her  lustreless  eyes ;  the  lips  that  had  been 
quivering  were  compressed  in  one  straight, 
mercilessly  stern  line.  Susanna  challenged 
Ratsch,  but  he  gazed  blankly,  and  suddenly 
subsiding  into  silence,  all  of  a  heap,  so  to  say, 
drew  his  head  in,  even  stepped  back  a  pace. 
66 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

The  veteran  of  the  year  twelve  was   afraid  ; 
there  could  be  no  mistake  about  that. 

Susanna  slowly  turned  her  eyes  from  him 
to  me,  as  though  calling  upon  me  to  witness 
her  victory,  and  the  humiliation  of  her  foe, 
and,  smiling  once  more,  she  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

The  veteran  remained  a  little  while  motion- 
less in  his  arm-chair;  at  last,  as  though 
recollecting  a  forgotten  part,  he  roused  himself, 
got  up,  and,  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder, 
laughed  his  noisy  guffaw. 

'There,  'pon  my  soul!  fancy  now,  it's  over 
ten  years  I  've  been  living  with  that  young 
lady,  and  yet  she  never  can  see  when  I  'm 
joking,  and  when  I  'm  in  earnest !  And  you 
too,  my  young  friend,  are  a  little  puzzled,  I  do 
believe.  .  .  .  Ha-ha-ha !  That 's  because  you 
don't  know  old  Ratsch  I ' 

'  No.  ...  I  do  know  you  now,'  I  thought,  not 
without  a  feeling  of  some  alarm  and  disgust. 

'You  don't  know  the  old  fellow,  you  don't 
know  him,'  he  repeated,  stroking  himself  on 
the  stomach,  as  he  accompanied  me  into  the 
passage.  '  I  may  be  a  tiresome  person,  knocked 
about  by  life,  ha-ha!  But  I'm  a  good-hearted 
fellow,  'pon  my  soul,  I  am  ! ' 

I  rushed  headlong  from  the  stairs  into  the 
street.     I  longed  with  all  speed  to  get  away 
from  that  good-hearted  fellow. 
67 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 


XIV 


'They  hate  one  another,  that's  clear,'  I 
thought,  as  I  returned  homewards;  'there's 
no  doubt  either  that  he's  a  wretch  of  a  man, 
and  she 's  a  good  girl.  But  what  has  there 
been  between  them  ?  What  is  the  reason  of 
this  continual  exasperation  ?  What  was  the 
meaning  of  those  hints  ?  And  how  suddenly 
it  broke  out !     On  such  a  trivial  pretext !  ' 

Next  day  Fustov  and  I  had  arranged  to  go 
to  the  theatre,  to  see  Shtchepkin  in  '  Woe  from 
Wit'  Griboyedov's  comedy  had  only  just  been 
licensed  for  performance  after  being  first  dis- 
figured by  the  censors'  mutilations.  We 
warmly  applauded  Famusov  and  Skalozub.  I 
don't  remember  what  actor  took  the  part  of 
Tchatsky,  but  I  well  remember  that  he  was 
indescribably  bad.  He  made  his  first  appear- 
ance in  a  Hungarian  jacket,  and  boots  with 
tassels,  and  came  on  later  in  a  frockcoat  of  the 
colour  'flamme  du  punch,'  then  in  fashion,  and 
the  frockcoat  looked  about  as  suitable  as  it 
would  have  done  on  our  old  butler.  I  recollect 
too  that  we  were  all  in  ecstasies  over  the  ball 
in  the  third  act.  Though,  probably,  no  one 
ever  executed  such  steps  in  reality,  it  was 
accepted  as  correct  and  I  believe  it  is  acted 
in  just  the  same  way  to-day.  One  of  the  guests 
68 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

hopped  excessively  high,  while  his  wig  flew 
from  side  to  side,  and  the  public  roared  with 
laughter.  As  we  were  coming  out  of  the  theatre, 
we  jostled  against  Viktor  in  a  corridor. 

'  You  were  in  the  theatre  ! '  he  cried,  flinging 
his  arms  about.  '  How  was  it  I  didn't  see  you  ? 
I  'm  awfully  glad  I  met  you.  You  must  come 
and  have  supper  with  me.  Come  on  ;  I  '11 
stand  the  supper  I' 

Young  Ratsch  seemed  in  an  excited,  almost 
ecstatic,  frame  of  mind.  His  little  eyes  darted 
to  and  fro  ;  he  was  grinning,  and  there  were 
spots  of  red  on  his  face. 

*  Why  this  gleefulness  ? '  asked  Fustov. 

'  Why  ?     Wouldn't  you  like  to  know,  eh  ? ' 
Viktor  drew  us  a  little  aside,  and  pulling  out 
of  his  trouser-pocket  a  whole  bundle  of  the  red 
and  blue  notes  then  in  use  waved  them  in  the 
air. 

Fustov  was  surprised. 

*  Has  your  governor  been  so  liberal  ? 
Viktor  chuckled. 

*  He  liberal !  You  just  try  it  on  !  .  .  .  This 
morning,  relying  on  your  intercession,  I  asked 
him  for  cash.  What  do  you  suppose  the  old 
skinflint  answered  ?  "I  '11  pay  your  debts," 
says  he,  "  if  you  like.  Up  to  twenty-five  roubles 
inclusive  I  "  Do  you  hear,  inclusive  !  No,  sir, 
this  was  a  gift  from  God  in  my  destitution. 
A  lucky  chance.' 

69 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'Been  robbing  some  one?'  Fustov  hazarded 
carelessly. 

Viktor  frowned. 

'  Robbing,  no  indeed  !  I  won  it,  won  it  from 
an  officer,  a  guardsman.  He  only  arrived  from 
Petersburg  yesterday.  Such  a  chain  of  circum- 
stances !  It 's  worth  telling  .  .  .  only  this  isn't 
the  place.  Come  along  to  Yar's  ;  not*a  couple 
of  steps.     I  '11  stand  the  show,  as  I  said  ! ' 

We  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  refused ;  but  we 
followed  without  making  any  objection. 


XV 


At  Yar's  we  were  shown  into  a  private  room ; 
supper  was  served,  champagne  was  brought. 
Viktor  related  to  us,  omitting  no  detail,  how 
he  had  in  a  certain  'gay'  house  met  this  officer 
of  the  guards,  a  very  nice  chap  and  of  good 
family,  only  without  a  hap'orth  of  brains ; 
how  they  had  made  friends,  how  he,  the  officer 
that  is,  had  suggested  as  a  joke  a  game  of 
'fools'  with  Viktor  with  some  old  cards,  for 
next  to  nothing,  and  with  the  condition  that 
the  officer's  winnings  should  go  to  the  benefit 
of  Wilhelmina,  but  Viktor's  to  his  own  benefit ; 
how  afterwards  they  had  got  on  to  betting  on 
the  games. 

'And  I,  and  I,'  cried  Viktor,  and  he  jumped 
70 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

up  and  clapped  his  hands,  '  I  hadn't  more  than 
six  roubles  in  my  pocket  all  the  while.  Fancy  ! 
And  at  first  I  was  completely  cleaned  out  .  .  . 
A  nice  position  !  Only  then — in  answer  to 
whose  prayers  I  can't  say — fortune  smiled. 
The  other  fellow  began  to  get  hot  and  kept 
showing  all  his  cards.  ...  In  no  time  he'd  lost 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  roubles!  He  began 
begging  mc  to  go  on  playing,  but  I  'm  not 
quite  a  fool,  I  fancy ;  no,  one  mustn't  abuse 
such  luck  ;  I  popped  on  my  hat  and  cut  away. 
So  now  I  've  no  need  to  eat  humble  pie  with 
the  governor,  and  can  treat  my  friends.  ...  Hi 
waiter!  Another  bottle!  Gentlemen,  let's 
clink  glasses ! ' 

We  did  clink  glasses  with  Viktor,  and  con- 
tinued drinking  and  laughing  with  him,  though 
his  story  was  by  no  means  to  our  liking,  nor 
was  his  society  a  source  of  any  great  satisfaction 
to  us  either.  He  began  being  very  affable, 
playing  the  buffoon,  unbending,  in  fact,  and 
was  more  loathsome  than  ever.  Viktor  noticed 
at  last  the  impression  he  was  making  on  us, 
and  began  to  get  sulky;  his  remarks  became 
more  disconnected  and  his  looks  gloomier.  He 
began  yawning,  announced  that  he  was  sleepy, 
and  after  swearing  with  his  characteristic 
coarseness  at  the  waiter  for  a  badly  cleaned 
pipe,  he  suddenly  accosted  Fustov,  with  a 
challenging  expression  on  his  distorted  face. 
71 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'I  say,  Alexander  Daviditch,' said  he,  'you 
tell  me,  if  you  please,  what  do  you  look  down 
on  me  for  ? ' 

'How  so?'  My  friend  was  momentarily  at 
a  loss  for  a  reply. 

'  I  '11  tell  you  how.  .  .  .  I  'm  very  well 
aware  that  you  look  down  on  me,  and  that 
person  does  too'  (he  pointed  at  me  with  his 
finger),  '  so  there  !  As  though  you  were  your- 
self remarkable  for  such  high  and  exalted 
principles,  and  weren't  just  as  much  a  sinner 
as  the  rest  of  us.  Worse  even.  Still  waters  ,  . . 
you  know  the  proverb  ? ' 

Fustov  turned  rather  red. 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Why,  I  mean  that  I  'm  not  blind  yet,  and 
I  see  very  clearly  everything  that's  going  on 
under  my  nose.  .  .  .  And  I  have  nothing  against 
it:  first  it's  not  my  principle  to  interfere,  and 
secondly,  my  sister  Susanna  Ivanovna  hasn't 
always  been  so  exemplary  herself.  .  .  .  Only, 
why  look  down  on  me?' 

'You  don't  understand  what  you're  babbling 
there  yourself!  You're  drunk,'  said  Fustov, 
taking  his  overcoat  from  the  wall.  '  lie 's 
swindled  some  fool  of  his  money,  and  now  he's 
telling  all  sorts  of  lies  ! ' 

Viktor  continued  reclining  on  the  sofa,  and 
merely  swung  his  legs,  which  were  hanging 
over  its  arm. 

72 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'Swindled!  Why  did  you  drink  the  wine, 
then?  It  was  paid  for  with  the  money  I  won, 
you  know.  As  for  lies,  I've  no  need  for  lying. 
It's  not  my  fault  that  in  her  past  Susanna 
Ivanovna     .  .' 

'  Hold  your  tongue ! '  Fustov  shouted  at  him, 
'  hold  your  tongue  .  .  .  or  .  .  .' 

'Or  what?' 

'  You  '11  find  out  what.     Come  along,  Piotr.' 

•  Aha  ! '  pursued  Viktor  ;  '  our  noble-iiearted 
knight  takes  refuge  in  flight.  He  doesn't  care 
to  hear  the  truth,  that's  evident!  It  stings — 
the  truth  does,  it  seems ! ' 

'  Come  along,  Piotr,'  Fustov  repeated,  com- 
pletely losing  his  habitual  coolness  and  self- 
possession.    '  Let's  leave  this  wretch  of  a  boy! ' 

'  The  boy  's  not  afraid  of  you,  do  you  hear, 
Viktor  shouted  after  us,  '  he  despises  you,  the 
boy  does  !     Do  you  hear ! ' 

Fustov  walked  so  quickly  along  the  street 
that  I  had  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  him. 
All  at  once  he  stopped  short  and  turned  sharply 
back. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? '  I  asked. 

'Oh,  I  must  find  out  what  the  idiot.  .  .  . 
He's  drunk,  no  doubt,  God  knows  what.  .  .  . 
Only  don't  you  follow  me  ...  we  shall  see 
each  other  to-morrow.     Good-bye  ! ' 

And  hurriedly  pressing  my  hand,  Fustov  set 
off  towards  Yar's  hotel. 
73 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

Next  day  I  missed  seeing  Fustov ;  and  on 
the  day  after  that,  on  going  to  his  rooms,  I 
learned  that  he  had  gone  into  the  country  to 
his  uncle's,  near  Moscow.  I  inquired  if  he  had 
left  no  note  for  me,  but  no  note  was  forth- 
coming. Then  I  asked  the  servant  whether 
he  knew  how  long  Alexander  Daviditch  would 
be  away  in  the  country.  'A  fortnight,  or  a 
little  more,  probably,'  replied  the  man.  I 
took  at  any  rate  Fustov's  exact  address,  and 
sauntered  home,  meditating  deeply.  This 
unexpected  absence  from  Moscow,  in  the 
winter,  completed  my  utter  perplexity.  My 
good  aunt  observed  to  me  at  dinner  that 
I  seemed  continually  expecting  something, 
and  gazed  at  the  cabbage  pie  as  though 
I  were  beholding  it  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life.  'Pierre,  vous  n'etes  pas  amoureux?' 
she  cried  at  last,  having  previously  got  rid  of 
her  companions.  But  I  reassured  her  :  no,  I 
was  not  in  love. 


XVI 

Three  days  passed.  I  had  a  secret  prompting 
to  go  to  the  Ratschs'.  I  fancied  that  in  their 
house  I  should  be  sure  to  find  a  solution  of  all 
that  absorbed  my  mind,  that  I  could  not  make 
out.  .  .  .  But  I  should  have  had  to  meet  the 
74 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

veteran.  ,  .  That  thought  pulled  mc  up. 
One  tempestuous  evening — the  February  wind 
was  howling  angrily  outside,  the  frozen  snow 
tapped  at  the  window  from  time  to  time  like 
coarse  sand  flung  by  a  mighty  hand — I  was 
sitting  in  my  room,  trying  to  read.  My  servant 
came,  and,  with  a  mysterious  air,  announced  that 
a  lady  wished  to  see  me.  I  was  surprised  .  .  . 
ladies  did  not  visit  me,  especially  at  such  a 
late  hour ;  however,  I  told  him  to  show  her 
in.  The  door  opened  and  with  swift  step 
there  walked  in  a  woman,  muffled  up  in  a  light 
summer  cloak  and  a  yellow  shawl.  Abruptly 
she  cast  off  the  cloak  and  the  shawl,  which 
were  covered  with  snow,  and  I  saw  standing 
before  me  Susanna.  I  was  so  astonished  that 
I  did  not  utter  a  word,  while  she  went  up  to 
the  window,  and  leaning  her  shoulder  against 
the  wall,  remained  motionless  ;  only  her  bosom 
heaved  convulsively  and  her  eyes  moved 
restlessly,  and  the  breath  came  with  a  faint 
moan  from  her  white  lips.  I  realised  that  it 
was  no  slight  trouble  that  had  brought  her 
to  me  ;  I  realised,  for  all  my  youth  and  shallow- 
ness, that  at  that  instant  before  my  eyes  the 
fate  of  a  whole  life  was  being  decided — a  bitter 
and  terrible  fate. 

'Susanna  Ivanovna,'  I  began,  'how  .  .  .  ' 
She  suddenly  clutched  my  hand  in  her  icy 
fingers,  but   her  voice  failed    her.      She  gave 
75 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

a  broken  sigh  and  looked  down.  Her  heavy 
coils  of  black  hair  fell  about  her  face.  .  .  .  The 
snow  had  not  melted  from  off  it. 

'Please,  calm  yourself,  sit  down,'  I  began 
again,  'see  here,  on  the  sofa.  What  has 
happened  ?     Sit  down,  I  entreat  you.' 

*  No,'  she  articulated,  scarcely  audibly,  and 
she  sank  on  to  the  window-seat.  '  I  am  all 
right  here.  .  .  .  Let  me  be.  .  .  .  You  could  not 
expect  .  .  .  but  if  you  knew  ...  if  I  could  .  .  . 
if  .  .  .' 

She  tried  to  control  herself,  but  the  tears 
flowed  from  her  eyes  with  a  violence  that  shook 
her,  and  sobs,  hurried,  devouring  sobs,  filled 
the  room.  I  felt  a  tightness  at  my  heart.  .  .  . 
I  was  utterly  stupefied.  I  had  seen  Susanna 
only  twice ;  I  had  conjectured  that  she  had 
a  hard  life,  but  I  had  regarded  lier  as  a  proud 
girl,  of  strong  character,  and  all  at  once  these 
violent,  despairing  tears.  .  .  .  Mercy !  Why, 
one  only  weeps  like  that  in  the  presence  of 
death ! 

I  stood  like  one  condemned  to  death  myself. 

'  Excuse  me,'  she  said  at  last,  several  times, 
almost  angrily,  wiping  first  one  eye,  then 
the  other.  'It'll  soon  be  over.  I've  come  to 
you.  .  .  .'  She  was  still  sobbing,  but  without 
tears.  '  I  've  come.  .  .  .  You  know  that  Alex- 
ander Daviditch  has  gone  away?' 

In  this  single  question  Susanna  revealed 
76 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

everything,  and  she  glanced  at  me,  as  though 
she  would  say  :  '  You  understand,  of  course,  you 
will  have  pity,  won't  you?'  Unhappy  girl! 
There  was  no  other  course  left  her  then  ! 

I  did  not  know  what  answer  to  make.  .  .  . 

'  He  has  gone  away,  he  has  gone  away  .  .  . 
he  believed  him  ! '  Susanna  was  saying  mean- 
while. '  He  did  not  care  even  to  question  me  ; 
he  thought  I  should  not  tell  him  all  the  truth, 
he  could  think  that  of  me  !  As  though  I  had 
ever  deceived  him  ! ' 

She  bit  her  lower  lip,  and  bending  a  little, 
began  to  scratch  with  her  nail  the  patterns 
of  ice  that  covered  the  window-pane.  I  went 
hastily  into  the  next  room,  and  sending  my 
servant  away,  came  back  at  once  and  lighted 
another  candle.  I  had  no  clear  idea  why  I 
was  doing  all  this.  ...  I  was  greatly  overcome. 

Susanna  was  sitting  as  before  on  the  window- 
seat,  and  it  was  at  this  moment  that  I  noticed 
how  lightly  she  was  dressed  :  a  grey  gown  with 
white  buttons  and  a  broad  leather  belt,  that 
was  all.  I  went  up  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
take  any  notice  of  me. 

'  He  believed  it,  .  .  .  he  believed  it,'  she 
whispered,  swaying  softly  from  side  to  side. 
'  He  did  not  hesitate,  he  dealt  me  this  last  .  .  . 
last  blow ! '  She  turned  suddenly  to  me. 
'You  know  his  address?' 

'Yes,  Susanna  Ivanovna  .  .  I  learnt  it  from 
77 


AN   UNHAPPY   GIRL 

his  servants  ...  at  his  house.  He  told  me 
nothing  of  his  intention  ;  I  had  not  seen  him 
for  two  days — went  to  inquire  and  he  had 
already  left  Moscow.' 

'You  know  his  address?'  she  repeated. 
'Well,  write  to  him  then  that  he  has  killed  me. 
You  are  a  good  man,  I  know.  He  did  not 
talk  to  you  of  me,  I  dare  say,  but  he  talked 
to  me  about  you.  Write  .  .  .  ah,  write  to  him 
to  come  back  quickly,  if  he  wants  to  find  me 
alive !  .  .  ,  No !     He  will  not  find  me !  .  .  .' 

Susanna's  voice  grew  quieter  at  each  word, 
and  she  was  quieter  altogether.  But  this  calm 
seemed  to  me  more  awful  than  the  previous  sobs. 

'  He  believed  him,  .  .  .'  she  said  again,  and 
rested  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands. 

A  sudden  squall  of  wind  beat  upon  the  window 
with  a  sharp  whistle  and  a  thud  of  snow.  A 
cold  draught  passed  over  the  room.  .  .  .  The 
candles  flickered.  .  .  .  Susanna  shivered. 

Again  I  begged  her  to  sit  on  the  sofa. 

'  No,  no,  let  me  be,'  she  answered,  '  I  am  all 
right  here.  Please.'  She  huddled  up  to  the 
frozen  pane,  as  though  she  had  found  herself  a 
refuge  in  the  recesses  of  the  window.     '  Please.' 

'  But  you  're  shivering,  you  're  frozen,'  I  cried. 
'  Look,  your  shoes  are  soaked.' 

'  Let  me  be  .  .  .  please  .  .  .'  she  whispered, 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

A  panic  seized  me. 

78 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

'Susanna  Ivanovna ! '  I  almost  screamed: 
'do  rouse  yourself,  I  entreat  you!  What  is 
the  matter  with  you?  Why  such  despair? 
You  will  see,  every  thing  will  be  cleared  up, 
some  misunderstanding  .  .  .  some  unlooked- 
for  chance.  .  .  .  You  will  see,  he  will  soon  be 
back.  I  will  let  him  know.  ...  I  will  write  to 
him  to-day.  .  .  .  But  I  will  not  repeat  your 
words.  ...  Is  it  possible  ! ' 

'  He  will  not  find  me,'  Susanna  murmured, 
still  in  the  same  subdued  voice.  'Do  you 
suppose  I  would  have  come  here,  to  you,  to 
a  stranger,  if  I  had  not  known  I  should  not 
long  be  living?  Ah,  all  my  past  has  been 
swept  away  beyond  return !  You  see,  I  could 
not  bear  to  die  so,  in  solitude,  in  silence,  with- 
out saying  to  some  one,  "  I  've  lost  every  thing 
.  .  .  and  I  'm  dying.  .  .  .  Look  I " ' 

She  drew  back  into  her  cold  little  corner.  .  .  . 
Never  shall  I  forget  that  head,  tliose  fixed  eyes 
with  their  deep,  burnt-out  look,  those  dark,  dis- 
ordered tresses  against  the  pale  window-pane, 
even  the  grey,  narrow  gown,  under  every  fold  of 
which  throbbed  such  young,  passionate  life ! 

Unconsciously  I  flung  up  my  hands. 

'You  .  .  .  you  die,  Susanna  Ivanovna !  You 
have  only  to  live.  .  .  .  You  must  live  ! ' 

She  looked  at  me.  .  .  .  My  words  seemed 
to  surprise  her. 

*  Ah,  you  don't  know,'  she  began,  and  she 
79 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

softly  dropped  both  her  hands.  '  I  cannot  live, 
Too  much,  too  much  I  have  had  to  suffer,  too 
much !  I  lived  through  it.  ...  I  hoped  .  ,  . 
but  now  .  .  .  when  even  this  is  shattered  .  .  . 
when  .  .  .' 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and 
seemed  to  sink  into  thought.  The  tragic  line, 
which  I  had  once  noticed  about  her  lips,  came 
out  now  still  more  clearly ;  it  seemed  to 
spread  across  her  whole  face.  It  seemed  as 
though  some  relentless  hand  had  drawn  it 
immutably,  had  set  a  mark  for  ever  on  this 
lost  soul. 

She  was  still  silent. 

'  Susanna  Ivanovna,'  I  said,  to  break  that 
awful  silence  with  anything ;  '  he  will  come 
back,  1  assure  you  ! ' 

Susanna  looked  at  me  again. 

'What  do  you  say?'  she  enunciated  with 
visible  effort. 

'  He  will  come  back,  Susanna  Ivanovna, 
Alexander  will  come  back  !  ' 

'He  will  come  back?'  she  repeated.  'But 
even  if  he  did  come  back,  I  cannot  forgive  him 
this  humiliation,  this  lack  of  faith.  .  .  .' 

She  clutched  at  her  head. 

'  My  God  !  my  God  !  what  am  I  saying,  and 
why  am   I  here?     What  is  it  all?     What  .  .  . 
what  did  I  come  to  ask  .  .  .  and  whom  ?     Ah, 
I  am  going  mad !  .  .  .' 
80 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Her  eyes  came  to  a  rest. 

'You  wanted  to  ask  mc  to  write  to  Alex- 
ander,' I  made  haste  to  remind  her. 

She  started. 

•Yes,  write,  write  to  him  .  .  .  what  you  h'ke. 
.  .  .  And  here  .  .  .'  She  hurriedly  fumbled  in 
her  pocket  and  brought  out  a  little  manuscript 
book.  'This  I  was  writing  for  him  .  .  .  before 
he  ran  away.  .  .  .  But  he  believed  ...  he 
believed  him  1 ' 

I  understood  that  her  words  referred  to 
Viktor;  Susanna  would  not  mention  him, 
would  not  utter  his  detested  name. 

*  But,  Susanna  Ivanovna,  excuse  me,'  I  began, 
'what  makes  you  suppose  that  Alexander 
Daviditch  had  any  conversation  .  .  .  with  that 
person  ? ' 

'What?  Why,  he  himself  came  to  me  and 
told  me  all  about  it,  and  bragged  of  it  .  .  .  and 
laughed  just  as  his  father  laughs  !  Here,  here, 
take  it,'  she  went  on,  thrusting  the  manuscript 
into  my  hand,  '  read  it,  send  it  to  him,  burn 
it,  throw  it  away,  do  what  you  like,  as  you 
please.  .  .  .  But  I  can't  die  like  this  with  no 
one  knowing.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  time.  ...  I 
must  go.' 

She  got  up  from  the  window-seat.  ...  I 
stopped  her. 

'Where  are  you  going,  Susanna  Ivanovna, 
mercy  on  us  !  Listen,  what  a  storm  is  raging ! 
F  8i 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

You  are  so  lightly  dressed.  .  .  .  And  your 
home  is  not  near  here.  Let  me  at  least  go  for 
a  carriage,  for  a  sledge.  .  .  .' 

'  No,  no,  I  want  nothing,'  she  said  resolutely, 
repelling  me  and  taking  up  her  cloak  and 
shawl.  *  Don't  keep  me,  for  God's  sake  !  or  .  .  . 
I  can't  answer  for  anything  1  I  feel  an  abyss, 
a  dark  abyss  under  my  feet.  .  .  .  Don't  come 
near  me,  don't  touch  me ! '  With  feverish  haste 
she  put  on  her  cloak,  arranged  her  shawl.  .  .  . 
'Good-bye  .  .  .  good-bye.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  un- 
happy people,  for  ever  strangers,  a  curse  lies 
upon  us !  No  one  has  ever  cared  for  me,  was 
it  likely  he  .  .  .'  She  suddenly  ceased.  'No; 
one  man  loved  me,'  she  began  again,  wringing 
her  hands,  '  but  death  is  all  about  me,  death 
and  no  escape  !  Now  it  is  my  turn.  .  .  .  Don't 
come  after  me,'  she  cried  shrilly,  'Don't  come! 
don't  come ! ' 

I  was  petrified,  while  she  rushed  out ;  and 
an  instant  later,  I  heard  the  slam  downstairs  of 
the  heavy  street  door,  and  the  window  panes 
shook  again  under  the  violent  onslaught  of 
the  blast. 

I  could  not  quickly  recover  myself  I  was 
only  beginning  life  in  those  days :  I  had  had 
no  experience  of  passion  nor  of  suffering,  and 
had  rarely  witnessed  any  manifestation  of 
strong  feeling  in  others.  .  .  .  But  the  sincerity 
of  this  suffering,  of  this  passion,  impressed  me. 
82 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  manuscript  in  my 
hands,  I  might  have  thought  that  I  had 
dreamed  it  all — it  was  all  so  unlikely,  and 
swooped  by  like  a  passing  storm.  I  was  till 
midnight  reading  the  manuscript.  It  consisted 
of  several  sheets  of  letter-paper,  closely  covered 
with  a  large,  irregular  writing,  almost  without 
an  erasure.  Not  a  single  line  was  quite  straight, 
and  one  seemed  in  every  one  of  them  to  feel 
the  excited  trembling  of  the  hand  that  held  the 
pen.  Here  follows  what  was  in  the  manuscript. 
I  have  kept  it  to  this  day. 


XVII 

MY   STORY 

I  AM  this  year  twenty-eight  years  old.  Here 
are  my  earliest  recollections  ;  I  was  living  in 
the  Tambov  province,  in  the  country  house  of 
a  rich  landowner,  Ivan  Matveitch  Koltovsky,  in 
a  small  room  on  the  second  storey.  With  me 
lived  my  mother,  a  Jewess,  daughter  of  a  dead 
painter,  who  had  come  from  abroad,  a  woman 
always  ailing,  with  an  extraordinarily  beautiful 
face,  pale  as  wax,  and  such  mournful  eyes,  that 
sometimes  when  she  gazed  long  at  me,  even 
without  looking  at  her,  I  was  aware  of  her 
sorrowful,  sorrowful  eyes,  and  I  would  burst 
83 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

into  tears  and  rush  to  embrace  her.  I  had 
tutors  come  to  me  ;  I  had  music  lessons,  and 
was  called  '  miss.'  I  dined  at  the  master's 
table  together  with  my  mother.  Mr.  Koltov- 
sky  was  a  tall,  handsome  old  man  with  a  stately 
manner ;  he  always  smelt  of  anibre.  I  stood 
in  mortal  terror  of  him,  though  he  called  me 
Suzon  and  gave  me  his  dry,  sinewy  hand  to 
kiss  under  its  lace-ruffles.  With  my  mother  he 
was  elaborately  courteous,  but  he  talked  little 
even  with  her.  He  would  say  two  or  three 
affable  words,  to  which  she  promptly  made  a 
hurried  answer ;  and  he  would  be  silent  and 
sit  looking  about  him  with  dignity,  and  slowly 
picking  up  a  pinch  of  Spanish  snuff  from  his 
round,  golden  snuff-box  with  the  arms  of  the 
Empress  Catherine  on  it. 

My  ninth  year  has  always  remained  vivid  in 
my  memory.  ...  I  learnt  then,  from  the  maids 
in  the  servants'  room,  that  Ivan  Matveitch  Kol- 
tovsky  was  my  father,  and  almost  on  the  same 
day,  my  mother,  by  his  command,  was  married 
to  Mr.  Ratsch,  who  was  something  like  a  steward 
to  him.  I  was  utterly  unable  to  comprehend 
the  possibility  of  such  a  thing,  I  was  bewildered, 
I  was  almost  ill,  my  brain  suffered  under  the 
strain,  my  mind  was  overclouded.  *  Is  it  true, 
is  it  true,  mamma,'  I  asked  her,  '  that  scented 
bogey'  (that  was  my  name  for  Ivan  Matveitch) 
'  is  my  father  ? '  My  mother  was  terribly  scared, 
84 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

she  shut  my  mouth.  ...  *  Never  speak  to  any 
one  of  that,  do  you  hear,  Susanna,  do  you  hear, 
not  a  word ! '  .  .  .  she  repeated  in  a  shaking 
voice,  pressing  my  head  to  her  bosom.  .  .  . 
And  I  never  did  speak  to  any  one  of  it.  .  .  . 
That  prohibition  of  my  mother's  I  under- 
stood. ...  I  understood  that  I  must  be  silent, 
that  my  mother  begged  my  forgiveness  ! 

My  unhappiness  began  from  that  day.  Mr. 
Ratsch  did  not  love  my  mother,  and  she  did 
not  love  him.  He  married  her  for  money,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  submit.  Mr.  Koltovsky 
probably  considered  that  in  this  way  every- 
thing had  been  arranged  for  the  best,  la  position 
^tait  r^gularis^e.  I  remember  the  day  before 
the  marriage  my  mother  and  I — both  locked 
in  each  other's  arms — wept  almost  the  whole 
morning — bitterly,  bitterly — and  silently.  It 
is  not  strange  that  she  was  silent.  .  .  .  What 
could  she  say  to  me  ?  But  that  I  did  not 
question  her  shows  that  unhappy  children  learn 
wisdom  sooner  than  happy  ones  .  .  .  to  their  cost. 

Mr.  Koltovsky  continued  to  interest  himself 
in  my  education,  and  even  by  degrees  put  me 
on  a  more  intimate  footing.  He  did  not  talk 
to  me  .  .  but  morning  and  evening,  after 
flicking  the  snuff  from  his  jabot  with  two 
fingers,  he  would  with  the  same  two  fingers — 
always  icy  cold — pat  me  on  the  cheek  and  give 
me  some  sort  of  dark-coloured  sweetmeats, 
85 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

also  smelling  of  arnbre,  which  I  never  ate.  At 
twelve  years  old  I  became  his  reader — sa petite 
lectrice.  I  read  him  French  books  of  the  last 
century,  the  memoirs  of  Saint  Simon,  of  Mably, 
Renal,  Helvetius,  Voltaire's  correspondence,  the 
encyclopaedists,  of  course  without  understanding 
a  word,  even  when,  with  a  smile  and  a  grimace, 
he  ordered  me,  '  relire  ce  dernier  paragraphe, 
qui  est  bien  remarquable  ! '  Ivan  Matveitch 
was  completely  a  Frenchman.  He  had  lived 
in  Paris  till  the  Revolution,  rememljered  Marie 
Antoinette,  and  had  received  an  invitation  to 
Trianon  to  see  her.  He  had  also  seen  Mirabeau, 
who,  according  to  his  account,  wore  very  large 
buttons — exagere  en  tout,  and  was  altogether  a 
man  of  tnaiivais  ton,  en  dc^pit  de  sa  naissance ! 
Ivan  Matveitch,  however,  rarely  talked  of  that 
time;  but  two  or  three  times  a  year,  addressing 
himself  to  the  crooked  old  emigrant  whom  he 
had  taken  into  his  house,  and  called  for  some 
unknown  reason  'M.  le  Commandeur,'  he  recited 
in  his  deliberate,  nasal  voice,  the  impromptu  he 
had  once  delivered  at  a  soiree  of  the  Duchesse 
de  Polignac.  I  remember  only  the  first  two 
lines.  ...  It  had  reference  to  a  comparison 
between  the  Russians  and  the  French : 

•  L'aigle  se  plait  aux  regions  austO:res 
Ou  le  ramier  ne  saurait  habiter  .  .  .' 

'  Digne    de    M.    de    Saint    Aulaire ! '     M.    le 
Commandeur  would  every  time  exclaim. 
86 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Ivan  Matveitch  looked  youngish  up  to  the 
time  of  his  death :  his  cheeks  were  rosy,  his 
teeth  white,  his  eyebrows  thick  and  immobile, 
his  eyes  agreeable  and  expressive,  clear,  black 
eyes,  perfect  agate.  He  was  not  at  all  un- 
reasonable, and  was  very  courteous  with  every 
one,  even  with  the  servants.  .  .  .  But,  my  God! 
how  wretched  I  was  with  him,  with  what  joy  I 
always  left  him,  what  evil  thoughts  confounded 
me  in  his  presence !  Ah,  I  was  not  to  blame 
for  them  !  .  .  .  I  was  not  to  blame  for  what 
they  had  made  of  me.  .  .  . 

Mr,  Ratsch  was,  after  his  marriage,  assigned 
a  lodge  not  far  from  the  big  house.  I  lived 
there  with  my  mother.  It  was  a  cheerless  life 
I  led  there.  She  soon  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
Viktor,  this  same  Viktor  whom  I  have  every 
right  to  think  and  to  call  my  enemy.  From 
the  time  of  his  birth  my  mother  never  regained 
her  health,  which  had  always  been  weak,  Mr. 
Ratsch  did  not  think  fit  in  those  days  to  keep 
up  such  a  show  of  good  spirits  as  he  maintains 
now:  he  always  wore  a  morose  air  and  tried  to 
pass  for  a  busy,  hard-working  person.  To  me 
he  was  cruel  and  rude.  I  felt  relief  when  I  re- 
tired from  Ivan  Matveitch's  presence ;  but  my 
own  home  too  I  was  glad  to  leave.  .  ,  .  Un- 
happy was  my  youth !  For  ever  tossed  from 
one  shore  to  the  other,  with  no  desire  to  anchor 
at  either !  I  would  run  across  the  courtyard  in 
87 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

winter,  through  the  deep  snow,  in  a  thin  frock- 
run  to  the  big  house  to  read  to  Ivan  Matveitch, 
and  as  it  were  be  glad  to  go.  .  .  .  But  when  I  was 
there,  when  I  saw  those  great  cheerless  rooms, 
the  bright-coloured,  upholstered  furniture,  that 
courteous  and  heartless  old  man  in  the  open 
silk  wadded  jacket,  in  the  white  jabot  and  white 
cravat,  with  lace  ruffles  falling  over  his  fingers, 
with  a  soupqon  of  powder  (so  his  valet  expressed 
it)  on  his  combed-back  hair,  I  felt  choked  by 
the  stifling  scent  of  ambre,  and  my  heart  sank. 
Ivan  Matveitch  usually  sat  in  a  large  low  chair  ; 
on  the  wall  behind  his  head  hung  a  picture, 
representing  a  young  woman,  with  a  bright  and 
bold  expression  of  face,  dressed  in  a  sumptu- 
ous Hebrew  costume,  and  simply  covered  with 
precious  stones,  with  diamonds.  ...  I  often 
stole  a  glance  at  this  picture,  but  only  later  on 
I  learned  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  my  mother, 
painted  by  her  father  at  Ivan  Matveitch's  re- 
quest. She  had  changed  indeed  since  those 
days !  Well  had  he  succeeded  in  subduing 
and  crushing  her !  *  And  she  loved  him  I 
Loved  that  old  man  ! '  was  my  thought.  .  .  . 
'  How  could  it  be !  Love  him  ! '  And  yet, 
when  I  recalled  some  of  my  mother's  glances, 
some  half-uttered  phrases  and  unconscious 
gestures.  .  .  .  '  Yes,  yes,  she  did  love  him ! '  I 
repeated  with  horror.  Ah,  God,  spare  others 
from  knowing  aught  of  such  feelings  ! 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Every  day  I  read  to  Ivan  Matveitch,  some- 
times for  three  or  four  hours  together.  ...  So 
much  reading  in  such  a  loud  voice  was  harm- 
ful to  me.  Our  doctor  was  anxious  about  my 
lungs  and  even  once  communicated  his  fears  to 
Ivan  Matveitch.  But  the  old  man  only  smiled 
— no  ;  he  never  smiled,  but  somehow  sharpened 
and  moved  forward  his  lips — and  told  him  : 
'  Vous  ne  savez  pas  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  ressources 
dans  cette  jeunesse.'  '  In  former  years,  how- 
ever, M.  le  Commandeur,'  .  .  .  the  doctor 
ventured  to  observe.  Ivan  Matveitch  smiled 
as  before.  '  Vous  revez,  mon  cher,'  he  inter- 
posed :  'le  commandeur  n'a  plus  de  dents,  et  il 
crache  a  chaque  mot.    J'aime  les  voix  jeunes.' 

And  I  still  went  on  reading,  though  my 
cough  was  very  troublesome  in  the  mornings 
and  at  night.  .  .  .  Sometimes  Ivan  Matveitch 
made  me  play  the  piano.  But  music  always 
had  a  soporific  influence  on  his  nerves.  His 
eyes  closed  at  once,  his  head  nodded  in  time, 
and  only  rarely  I  heard,  '  C'est  du  Steibelt, 
n'est-ce  pas?  Jouez-moi  du  Steibelt!'  Ivan 
Matveitch  looked  upon  Steibelt  as  a  great 
genius,  who  had  succeeded  in  overcoming  in 
himself  '  la  grossiere  lourdeur  des  Allemands,' 
and  only  found  fault  with  him  for  one  thing : 
'  trop  de  fougue !  trop  d'imagination  ! '  .  .  . 
When  Ivan  Matveitch  noticed  that  I  was 
tired  from  playing  he  would  offer  me  '  du 
89 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

cachou  de  Bologne.'     So  day  after  day  slipped 
by.  ... 

And  then  one  night — a  night  never  to  be 
forgotten ! — a  terrible  calamity  fell  upon  me. 
My  mother  died  almost  suddenly.  I  was  only 
just  fifteen.  Oh,  what  a  sorrow  that  was,  with 
what  cruel  violence  it  swooped  down  upon  me ! 
How  terrified  I  was  at  that  first  meeting  with 
death  !  My  poor  mother  !  Strange  were  our 
relations ;  we  passionately  loved  each  other 
.  .  .  passionately  and  hopelessly ;  we  both  as 
it  were  treasured  up  and  hid  from  each  other 
our  common  secret,  kept  obstinately  silent 
about  it,  though  we  knew  all  that  was 
passing  at  the  bottom  of  our  hearts ! 
Even  of  the  past,  of  her  own  early  past,  my 
mother  never  spoke  to  me,  and  she  never  com- 
plained in  words,  though  her  whole  being  was 
nothing  but  one  dumb  complaint.  We  avoided 
all  conversation  of  any  seriousness.  Alas !  I 
kept  hoping  that  the  hour  would  come,  and  she 
would  open  her  heart  at  last,  and  I  too  should 
speak  out,  and  both  of  us  would  be  more  at 
ease.  .  .  .  But  the  daily  little  cares,  her  irreso- 
lute, shrinking  temper,  illnesses,  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Ratsch,  and  most  of  all  the  eternal  question, 
— what  is  the  use  ?  and  the  relentless,  unbroken 
flowing  away  of  time,  of  life.  .  .  .  All  was  ended 
as  though  by  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  the  words 
which  would  have  loosed  us  from  the  burden  of 
90 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

our  secret — even  the  last  dying  words  of  leave- 
taking —  I  was  not  destined  to  hear  from  my 
mother !  All  that  is  left  in  my  memory  is  Mr. 
Ratsch's  calling, '  Susanna  Ivanovna,  go,  please, 
your  mother  wishes  to  give  you  her  blessing ! ' 
and  then  the  pale  hand  stretched  out  from  the 
heavy  counterpane,  the  agonised  breathing,  the 
dying  eyes.  .  .  .  Oh,  enough  I  enough ! 

With  what  horror,  with  what  indignation  and 
piteous  curiosity  I  looked  next  day,  and  on  the 
day  of  the  funeral,  into  the  face  of  my  father  .  .  . 
yes,  my  father !  In  my  dead  mother's  writ- 
ing-case were  found  his  letters.  I  fancied  he 
looked  a  little  pale  and  drawn  .  .  .  but  no ! 
Nothing  was  stirring  in  that  heart  of  stone. 
Exactly  as  before,  he  summoned  me  to  his 
room,  a  week  later ;  exactly  in  the  same  voice 
he  asked  me  to  read  :  '  Si  vous  le  voulez  bien, 
les  observations  sur  I'histoire  de  France  de 
Mably,  a  la  page  74  ...  la  ou  nous  avons  ^te 
interrompus.'  And  he  had  not  even  had  my 
mother's  portrait  moved !  On  dismissing  me, 
he  did  indeed  call  me  to  him,  and  giving  me 
his  hand  to  kiss  a  second  time,  he  observed  : 
'  Suzanne,  la  mort  de  votre  m^re  vous  a  privee 
de  votre  appui  naturel ;  mais  vous  pourrez 
toujours  compter  sur  ma  protection,'  but  with 
the  other  hand  he  gave  me  at  once  a  slight 
push  on  the  shoulder,  and,  with  the  sharpening 
of  the  corners  of  the  mouth  habitual  with  him, 
01 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

he  added,  '  Allez,  mon  enfant'  I  longed  to 
shriek  at  him  :  '  Why,  but  you  know  you  're  my 
father ! '  but  I  said  nothing  and  left  the  room. 

Next  morning,  early,  I  went  to  the  grave- 
yard. May  had  come  in  all  its  glory  of  flowers 
and  leaves,  and  a  long  while  I  sat  on  the  new 
grave.  I  did  not  weep,  nor  grieve  ;  one  thought 
was  filling  my  brain:  'Do  you  hear,  mother? 
He  means  to  extend  his  protection  to  me,  too  ! ' 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  mother  ought 
not  to  be  wounded  by  the  smile  which  it 
instinctively  called  up  on  my  lips. 

At  times  I  wonder  what  made  me  so  per- 
sistently desire  to  wring — not  a  confession 
.  .  .  no,  indeed !  but,  at  least,  one  warm  word 
of  kinship  from  Ivan  Matveitch  ?  Didn't  I 
know  what  he  was,  and  how  little  he  was  like 
all  that  I  pictured  in  my  dreams  as  a /at her} 
.  .  .  But  I  was  so  lonely,  so  alone  on  earth ! 
And  then,  that  thought,  ever  recurring,  gave  me 
no  rest :  '  Did  not  she  love  him  ?  She  must 
have  loved  him  for  something  ?  ' 

Three  years  more  slipped  by.  Nothing 
changed  in  the  monotonous  round  of  life, 
marked  out  and  arranged  for  us.  Viktor  was 
growing  into  a  boy.  I  was  eight  years  older 
and  would  gladly  have  looked  after  him,  but 
Mr.  Ratsch  opposed  my  doing  so.  He  gave 
him  a  nurse,  who  had  orders  to  keep  strict 
watch  that  the  child  was  not  '  spoilt,'  that  is, 
92 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

not  to  allow  me  to  go  near  him.  And  Viktor 
himself  fought  shy  of  me.  One  day  Mr.  Ratsch 
came  into  my  room,  perturbed,  excited,  and 
angry.  On  the  previous  evening  unpleasant 
rumours  had  reached  me  about  my  stepfather ; 
the  servants  were  talking  of  his  having  been 
caught  embezzling  a  considerable  sum  of  money, 
and  taking  bribes  from  a  merchant. 

'You  can  assist  me,'  he  began,  tapping  im- 
patiently on  the  table  with  his  fingers.  '  Go  and 
speak  for  me  to  Ivan  Matveitch.' 

'  Speak  for  you  ?  On  what  ground  ?  What 
about  ? ' 

'  Intercede  for  me.  .  .  .  I  'm  not  like  a  stranger 
any  way  ...  I  'm  accused  .  .  .  well,  the  fact 
is,  I  may  be  left  without  bread  to  eat,  and  you, 
too.' 

'  But  how  can  I  go  to  him  ?  How  can  I 
disturb  him  ?  ' 

'  What  next !  You  have  a  right  to  disturb 
him!' 

'What  right,  Ivan  Demianitch?' 

*  Come,  no  humbug.  .  .  .  He  cannot  refuse 
you,  for  many  reasons.  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  don't  understand  that?' 

He  looked  insolently  into  my  eyes,  and  I  felt 
my  cheeks  simply  burning.  Hatred,  contempt, 
rose  up  within  me,  surged  in  a  rush  upon  me, 
drowning  me. 

'  Yes,  I  understand  you,  Ivan  Demianitch/  I 
93 


AN    UNHAPl'Y    GIKL 

answered  at  last — my  own  voice  seemed  strange 
to  me — 'and  I  am  not  going  to  Ivan  Matveitch, 
and  I  will  not  ask  him  for  anything.  Bread,  or 
no  bread ! ' 

Mr.  Ratsch  shivered,  ground  his  teeth,  and 
clenched  his  fists. 

'  All  right,  wait  a  bit,  your  highness ! '  he 
muttered  huskily.     '  I  won't  forget  it ! ' 

That  same  day,  Ivan  Matveitch  sent  for  him, 
and,  I  was  told,  shook  his  cane  at  him,  the  very 
cane  which  he  had  once  exchanged  with  the 
Due  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  and  cried,  '  You  be  a 
scoundrel  and  extortioner  I  I  put  you  outside  ! ' 
Ivan  Matveitch  could  hardly  speak  Russian  at 
all,  and  despised  our  '  coarse  jargon,'  ce  jargon 
vtilgaire  et  rude.  Some  one  once  said  before 
him,  *  That  same 's  self-understood.'  Ivan  Mat- 
veitch was  quite  indignant,  and  often  after- 
wards quoted  the  phrase  as  an  example  of  the 
senselessness  and  absurdity  of  the  Russian 
tongue.  *  What  does  it  mean,  that  same  's 
self-understood  ? '  he  would  ask  in  Russian, 
with  emphasis  on  each  syllable.  '  Why  not 
simply  that's  understood,  and  why  same  and 
self?' 

Ivan  Matveitch  did  not,  however,  dismiss  Mr. 
Ratsch,  he  did  not  even  deprive  him  of  his 
position.  But  my  stepfather  kept  his  word  :  he 
never  forgot  it. 

I  began  to  notice  a  change  in  Ivan  Mat- 
94 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

veitch.  He  was  low-spirited,  depressed,  his 
health  broke  down  a  little.  His  fresh,  rosy- 
face  grew  yellow  and  wrinkled  ;  he  lost  a  front 
tooth.  He  quite  ceased  going  out,  and  gave 
up  the  reception-days  he  had  established  for 
the  peasants,  without  the  assistance  of  the 
priest,  sans  le  concours  du  clergi.  On  such 
days  Ivan  Matveitch  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
going  in  to  the  peasants  in  the  hall  or  on  the 
balcony,  with  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  and 
putting  his  lips  to  a  silver  goblet  of  vodka,  he 
would  make  them  a  speech  something  like  this  : 
*  You  are  content  with  my  actions,  even  as  I  am 
content  with  your  zeal,  whereat  I  rejoice  truly. 
We  are  all  brothers ;  at  our  birth  we  are  equal ; 
I  drink  your  health  ! '  He  bowed  to  them,  and 
the  peasants  bowed  to  him,  but  only  from  the 
waist,  no  prostrating  themselves  to  the  ground, 
that  was  strictly  forbidden.  The  peasants  were 
entertained  with  good  cheer  as  before,  but  Ivan 
Matveitch  no  longer  showed  himself  to  his  sub- 
jects. Sometimes  he  interrupted  my  reading 
with  exclamations  :  '  La  machine  se  d^traque ! 
Cela  se  gate ! '  Even  his  eyes — those  bright, 
stony  eyes — began  to  grow  dim  and,  as  it  were, 
smaller ;  he  dozed  oftener  than  ever  and 
breathed  hard  in  his  sleep.  His  manner  with 
me  was  unchanged  ;  only  a  shade  of  chivalrous 
deference  began  to  be  perceptible  in  it.  He 
never  failed  to  get  up — though  with  difficulty 
95 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

— from  his  chair  when  I  came  in,  conducted  me 
to  the  door,  supporting  me  with  his  hand  under 
my  elbow,  and  instead  of  Suzon  began  to  call 
me  sometimes,  '  ma  chere  demoiselle,'  some- 
times, '  mon  Antigone.'  M.  le  Commandeur 
died  two  years  after  my  mother's  death  ;  his 
death  seemed  to  affect  Ivan  Matveitch  far  more 
deeply.  A  contemporary  had  disappeared : 
that  was  what  distressed  him.  And  yet  in 
later  years  M.  le  Commandeur's  sole  service 
had  consisted  in  crying,  '  Bien  jou6,  mal  r^ussi ! ' 
every  time  Ivan  Matveitch  missed  a  stroke, 
playing  billiards  with  Mr.  Ratsch  ;  though, 
indeed,  too,  when  Ivan  Matveitch  addressed 
him  at  table  with  some  such  question  as  :  '  N'est- 
ce  pas,  M.  le  Commandeur,  c'est  Montesquieu 
qui  a  dit  cela  dans  ses  Lettres  Persanes  ? '  he 
had  still,  sometimes  dropping  a  spoonful  of 
soup  on  his  ruffle,  responded  profoundly  : 
'  Ah,  Monsieur  de  Montesquieu  ?  Un  grand 
^crivain,  monsieur,  un  grand  ^crivain  ! '  Only 
once,  when  Ivan  Matveitch  told  him  that  'les 
theophilanthropes  ont  eu  pourtant  du  bon ! ' 
the  old  man  cried  in  an  excited  voice,  *  Mon- 
sieur de  Kolontouskoi'  (he  hadn't  succeeded 
in  the  course  of  twenty  years  in  learning  to 
pronounce  his  patron's  name  correctly),  '  Mon- 
sieur de  Kolontouskoi !  Leur  fondateur,  I'insti- 
gatcur  de  cette  secte,  ce  La  Reveill^re  Lepeaux 
^tait  un  bonnet  rouge  ! '  '  Non,  non,'  said  Ivan 
96 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Matveitch,  smiling  and  rolling  together  a  pinch 
of  snuff:  *des  fleurs,  des  jeunes  viergcs,  le  cultc 
de  la  Nature  .  .  .  ils  ont  eu  du  bon,  ils  ont  eu 
du  bon  I '  .  .  .  I  was  always  surprised  at  the 
extent  of  Ivan  Matvcitch's  knowledge,  and  at 
the  uselessness  of  his  knowledge  to  himself. 

Ivan  Matveitch  was  perceptibly  failing,  but 
he  still  put  a  good  face  on  it.  One  day,  three 
weeks  before  his  death,  he  had  a  violent  attack 
of  giddiness  just  after  dinner.  He  sank  into 
thought,  said,  *  C'est  la  fin,'  and  pulling  him- 
self together  with  a  sigh,  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
Petersburg  to  his  sole  heir,  a  brother  with  whom 
he  had  had  no  intercourse  for  twenty  years. 
Hearing  that  Ivan  Matveitch  was  unwell,  a 
neighbour  paid  him  a  visit — a  German,  a 
Catholic — once  a  distinguished  physician,  who 
was  living  in  retirement  in  his  little  place  in 
the  country.  He  was  very  rarely  at  Ivan 
Matveitch's,  but  the  latter  always  received  him 
with  special  deference,  and  in  fact  had  a  great 
respect  for  him.  He  was  almost  the  only  per- 
son in  the  world  he  did  respect.  The  old  man 
advised  Ivan  Matveitch  to  send  for  a  priest, 
but  Ivan  Matveitch  responded  that  'ces  mes- 
sieurs et  moi,  nous  n'avons  rien  a  nous  dire,* 
and  begged  him  to  change  the  subject.  On  the 
neighbour's  departure,  he  gave  his  valet  orders 
to  admit  no  one  in  future. 

Then  he  sent  for  me.  I  was  frightened  when 
G  97 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

I  saw  him  ;  there  were  blue  patches  under 
his  eyes,  his  face  looked  drawn  and  stiff,  his 
jaw  hung  down.  *  Vous  voila  grande,  Suzon,' 
he  said,  with  difficulty  articulating  the  conson- 
ants, but  still  trying  to  smile  (I  was  then  nine- 
teen), '  vous  allez  peut-etre  bientot  rester  seule. 
Soyez  toujours  sage  et  vertueuse.  C'est  la  der- 
ni^re  recommandation  d'un  ' — he  coughed  — 
*d'un  vieillard  qui  vous  veut  du  bien.  Je  vous 
ai  recommand^  k  mon  frere  et  je  ne  doute  pas 
qu'il  ne  respecte  mes  volont^s.  ,  .  .'  He  coughed 
again,  and  anxiously  felt  his  chest.  '  Du  reste, 
j'espere  encore  pouvoir  faire  quelque  chose  pour 
vous  .  .  .  dans  mon  testament.'  This  last 
phrase  cut  me  to  the  heart,  like  a  knife.  Ah, 
it  was  really  too  .  .  .  too  contemptuous  and 
insulting  I  Ivan  Matveitch  probably  ascribed 
to  some  other  feeling — to  a  feeling  of  grief  or 
gratitude — what  was  expressed  in  my  face,  and 
as  though  wishing  to  comfort  me,  he  patted  me 
on  the  shoulder,  at  the  same  time,  as  usual, 
gently  repelling  me,  and  observed  :  '  Voyons, 
mon  enfant,  du  courage !  Nous  sommes  tous 
mortels  I  Et  puis  il  n'y  a  pas  encore  de  danger. 
Ce  n'est  qu'une  pr(^caution  que  j'ai  cru  devoir 
prendre.  .  .  .  Allez ! ' 

Again,  just  as  when  he  had  summoned  me 

after  my  mother's  death,  I  longed  to  shriek  at 

him,  *  But  I  'm  your  daughter  !  your  daughter! ' 

But  I  thought  in  those  words,  in  that  cry  of  the 

98 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

heart,  lie  would  doubtless  hear  nothing  but  a 
desire  to  assert  my  rights,  my  claims  on  his 
property,  on  his  money.  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  for  nothing 
in  the  world  would  I  say  a  word  to  this  man, 
who  had  not  once  mentioned  my  mother's  name 
to  mc,  in  whose  eyes  I  was  of  so  little  account 
that  he  did  not  even  trouble  himself  to  ascer- 
tain whether  I  was  aware  of  my  parentage  !  Or, 
perhaps,  he  suspected,  even  knew  it,  and  did 
not  wish  '  to  raise  a  dust '  (a  favourite  saying  of 
his,  almost  the  only  Russian  expression  he 
ever  used),  did  not  care  to  deprive  himself  of 
a  good  reader  with  a  young  voice  !  No  !  no  ! 
Let  him  go  on  wronging  his  daughter,  as  he 
had  wronged  her  mother !  Let  him  carry  both 
sins  to  the  grave  !  I  swore  it,  I  swore  he  should 
not  hear  from  my  lips  the  word  which  must 
have  something  of  a  sweet  and  holy  sound  in 
every  ear!  I  would  not  say  to  him  father!  I 
would  not  forgive  him  for  my  mother  and  my- 
self!  He  felt  no  need  of  that  forgiveness,  of 
that  name.  ...  It  could  not  be,  it  could  not 
be  that  he  felt  no  need  of  it !  But  he  should 
not  have  forgiveness,  he  should  not,  he  should 
not! 

God  knows  whether  I  should  have  kept  my 
vow,  and  whether  my  heart  would  not  have 
softened,  whether  I  should  not  have  overcome 
my  shyness,  my  shame,  and  my  pride  .  .  .  but 
it  happened  with  Ivan  Matveitch  just  as  with 
99 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

my  mother.  Death  carried  him  off  suddenly, 
and  also  in  the  night.  It  was  again  Mr.  Ratsch 
who  waked  me,  and  ran  with  me  to  the  big 
house,  to  Ivan  Matveitch's  bedroom.  .  .  .  But 
I  found  not  even  the  last  dying  gestures,  which 
had  left  such  a  vivid  impression  on  my  memory 
at  my  mother's  bedside.  On  the  embroidered, 
lace-edged  pillows  lay  a  sort  of  withered,  dark- 
coloured  doll,  with  sharp  nose  and  ruffled  grey 
eyebrows.  ...  I  shrieked  with  horror,  with 
loathing,  rushed  away,  stumbled  in  doorways 
against  bearded  peasants  in  smocks  with  holi- 
day red  sashes,  and  found  myself,  I  don't 
remember  how,  in  the  fresh  air.  .  .  . 

I  was  told  afterwards  that  when  the  valet 
ran  into  the  bedroom,  at  a  violent  ring  of 
the  bell,  he  found  Ivan  Matveitch  not  in  the 
bed,  but  a  few  feet  from  it.  And  that  he  was 
sitting  huddled  up  on  the  floor,  and  that  twice 
over  he  repeated,  '  Well,  granny,  here 's  a 
pretty  holiday  for  you !'  And  that  these  were 
his  last  words.  But  I  cannot  believe  that. 
Was  it  likely  he  would  speak  Russian  at  such 
a  moment,  and  such  a  homely  old  Russian 
saying  too ! 

For  a  whole  fortnight  afterwards  we  were 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  new  master,  Semyon 
Matveitch  Koltovsky.  He  sent  orders  that 
nothing  was  to  be  touched,  no  one  was  to  be 
discharged,  till  he  had  looked  into  everything 

lOO 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

In  person.  All  the  doors,  all  the  furniture, 
drawers,  tables — all  were  locked  and  scaled 
up.  All  the  servants  were  downcast  and 
apprehensive.  I  became  suddenly  one  of  the 
most  important  persons  in  the  house,  perhaps 
the  most  important.  I  had  been  spoken  of  as 
'  the  young  lady'  before ;  but  now  this  expres- 
sion seemed  to  take  a  new  significance,  and 
was  pronounced  with  a  peculiar  emphasis.  It 
began  to  be  whispered  that  '  the  old  master 
had  died  suddenly,  and  hadn't  time  to  send  for 
a  priest,  indeed  and  he  hadn't  been  at  con- 
fession for  many  a  long  day  ;  but  still,  a  will 
doesn't  take  long  to  make.' 

Mr.  Ratsch,  too,  thought  well  to  change  his 
mode  of  action.  He  did  not  affect  good-nature 
and  friendliness;  he  knew  he  would  not  impose 
upon  me,  but  his  face  wore  an  expression  of 
sulky  resignation.  '  You  see,  I  give  in,'  he 
seemed  to  say.  Every  one  showed  me  defer- 
ence, and  tried  to  please  me  .  .  .  while  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  or  how  to  behave,  and 
could  only  marvel  that  people  failed  to  perceive 
how  they  were  hurting  me.  At  last  Semyon 
Matveitch  arrived. 

Semyon  Matveitch  was  ten  years  younger 
than  Ivan  Matveitch,  and  his  whole  life  had 
taken  a  completely  different  turn.  He  was  a 
government  official  in  Petersburg,  filling  an 
important  position.  .  .  .  He  had  married  and 

lOI 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

been  left  early  a  widower ;  he  had  one  son. 
In  face  Semyon  Matveitch  was  like  his  brother, 
only  he  was  shorter  and  stouter,  and  had  a 
round  bald  head,  brii^ht  black  eyes,  like  Ivan 
Matveitch's,  only  more  prominent,  and  full  red 
lips.  Unlike  his  brother,  whom  he  spoke  of 
even  after  his  death  as  a  French  philosopher, 
and  sometimes  bluntly  as  a  queer  fish,  Semyon 
Matveitch  almost  invariably  talked  Russian, 
loudly  and  fluently,  and  he  was  constantly 
laughing,  completely  closing  his  eyes  as  he  did 
so  and  shaking  all  over  in  an  unpleasant  way, 
as  though  he  were  shaking  with  rage.  He 
looked  after  things  very  sharply,  went  into 
everything  himself,  exacted  the  strictest 
account  from  every  one.  The  very  first  day  of 
his  arrival  he  ordered  a  service  with  holy  water, 
and  sprinkled  everything  with  water,  all  the 
rooms  in  the  house,  even  the  lofts  and  the 
cellars,  in  order,  as  he  put  it,  'radically  to  expel 
the  Voltaircan  and  Jacobin  spirit.'  In  the  first 
week  several  of  Ivan  Matveitch's  favourites 
were  sent  to  the  right-about,  one  was  even 
banished  to  a  settlement,  corporal  punishment 
was  inflicted  on  others ;  the  old  valet — he 
was  a  Turk,  knew  French,  and  had  been  given 
to  Ivan  Matveitch  by  the  late  field-marshal 
Kamensky — received  his  freedom,  indeed,  but 
with  it  a  command  to  be  gone  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  '  as  an  example  to  others.'  Semyon 
1 02 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Matvcitch  turned  out  to  be  a  harsh  master ; 
many  probably  regretted  the  late  owner. 

'  With  the  old  master,  Ivan  Matveitch,'  a 
butler,  decrepit  with  age,  wailed  in  my  pre- 
sence, '  our  only  trouble  was  to  see  that  the 
linen  put  out  was  clean,  and  that  the  rooms 
smelt  sweet,  and  that  the  servants'  voices 
weren't  heard  in  the  passages — God  forbid! 
For  the  rest,  you  might  do  as  you  pleased. 
The  old  master  never  hurt  a  fly  in  his  life ! 
Ah,  it 's  hard  times  now  !     It 's  time  to  die  ! ' 

Rapid,  too,  was  the  change  in  my  position, 
that  is  to  say  in  the  position  in  which  I  had 
been  placed  for  a  few  days  against  my  own 
will.  .  .  .  No  sort  of  will  was  found  among 
Ivan  Matveitch's  papers,  not  a  line  written  for 
my  benefit.  At  once  every  one  seemed  in 
haste  to  avoid  me.  ...  I  am  not  speaking  of 
Mr.  Ratsch  .  .  .  every  one  else,  too,  was  angry 
with  me,  and  tried  to  show  their  anger,  as 
though  I  had  deceived  them. 

One  Sunday  after  matins,  in  which  he 
invariably  officiated  at  the  altar,  Semyon 
Matveitch  sent  for  me.  Till  that  day  I  had 
seen  him  by  glimpses,  and  he  seemed  not  to 
have  noticed  me.  He  received  me  in  his 
study,  standing  at  the  window.  He  was  wear- 
ing an  official  uniform  with  two  stars.  I  stood 
still,  near  the  door ;  my  heart  was  beating 
violently  from  fear  and  from  another  feeling, 
103 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

vague  as  yet,  but  still  oppressive.  '  I  wish  to 
see  you,  young  lady,'  began  Semyou  Matveitch, 
glancing  first  at  my  feet,  and  then  suddenly 
into  my  eyes.  The  look  was  like  a  slap  in 
the  face.  *  I  wished  to  see  you  to  inform  you 
of  my  decision,  and  to  assure  you  of  my  un- 
hesitating inclination  to  be  of  service  to  you.' 
He  raised  his  voice.  *  Claims,  of  course,  you 
have  none,  but  as  .  .  .  my  brother's  reader  you 
may  always  reckon  on  my  .  .  .  my  considera- 
tion. I  am  ...  of  course  convinced  of  your 
good  sense  and  of  your  principles,  Mr.  Ratsch, 
your  stepfather,  has  already  received  from  me 
the  necessary  instructions.  To  which  I  must 
add  that  your  attractive  exterior  seems  to  me 
a  pledge  of  the  excellence  of  your  sentiments.' 
Semyon  Matveitch  went  off  into  a  thin  chuckle, 
while  I  ...  I  was  not  offended  exactly  .  .  . 
but  I  suddenly  felt  very  sorry  for  myself  .  .  . 
and  at  that  moment  I  fully  realised  how  utterly 
forsaken  and  alone  I  was.  Semyon  Matveitch 
went  with  short,  firm  steps  to  the  table,  took  a 
roll  of  notes  out  of  the  drawer,  and  putting  it 
in  my  hand,  he  added :  '  Here  is  a  small  sum 
from  me  for  pocket-money.  I  won't  forget  you 
in  future,  my  pretty  ;  but  good-bye  for  the 
present,  and  be  a  good  girl.'  I  took  the  roll 
mechanically :  I  should  have  taken  anything 
he  had  offered  me,  and  going  back  to  my  own 
room,  a  long  while  I  wept,  sitting  on  my  bed. 
104 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

I  did  not  notice  that  I  had  dropped  the  roll  of 
notes  on  the  floor.  Mr.  Ratsch  found  it  and 
picked  it  up,  and,  asking  me  what  I  meant  to 
do  with  it,  kept  it  for  himself. 

An  important  change  had  taken  place  in  his 
fortunes  too  in  those  days.  After  a  few  con- 
versations with  Semyon  Matveitch,  he  became 
a  great  favourite,  and  soon  after  received  the 
position  of  head  steward.  From  that  time 
dates  his  cheerfulness,  that  eternal  laugh  of 
his ;  at  first  it  was  an  effort  to  adapt  himself 
to  his  patron  ...  in  the  end  it  became  a  habit. 
It  was  then,  too,  that  he  became  a  Russian 
patriot.  Semyon  Matveitch  was  an  admirer  of 
everything  national,  he  called  himself  '  a  true 
Russian  bear,'  and  ridiculed  the  European 
dress,  which  he  wore  however.  He  sent  away 
to  a  remote  village  a  cook,  on  whose  training 
Ivan  Matveitch  had  spent  vast  sums :  he  sent 
him  away  because  he  had  not  known  how  to 
prepare  pickled  giblets. 

Semyon  Matveitch  used  to  stand  at  the  altar 
and  join  in  the  responses  with  the  deacons,  and 
when  the  serf-girls  were  brought  together  to 
dance  and  sing  choruses,  he  would  join  in  their 
songs  too,  and  beat  time  with  his  feet,  and 
pinch  their  cheeks.  .  .  .  But  he  soon  went 
back  to  Petersburg,  leaving  my  stepfather 
practically  in  complete  control  of  the  whole 
property. 

105 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Bitter  days  began  for  me.  .  .  .  My  one  con- 
solation was  music,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  it 
with  my  whole  soul.  Fortunately  Mr.  Ratsch 
was  very  fully  occupied,  but  he  took  every 
opportunity  to  make  me  feel  his  hostility ;  as 
he  had  promised,  he  'did  not  forget'  my 
refusal.  He  ill-treated  me,  made  me  copy  his 
long  and  lying  reports  to  Semyon  Matveitch, 
and  correct  for  him  the  mistakes  in  spelling. 
I  was  forced  to  obey  him  absolutely,  and  I  did 
obey  him.  He  announced  that  he  meant  to 
tame  me,  to  make  me  as  soft  as  silk.  '  What 
do  you  mean  by  those  mutinous  eyes?'  he 
shouted  sometimes  at  dinner,  drinking  his 
beer,  and  slapping  the  table  with  his  hand. 
'  You  think,  maybe,  you  're  as  silent  as  a  sheep, 
so  you  must  be  all  right.  .  .  .  Oh,  no  !  You  '11 
please  look  at  me  like  a  sheep  too ! '  My 
position  became  a  torture,  insufferable,  .  .  . 
my  heart  was  growing  bitter.  Something 
dangerous  began  more  and  more  frequently 
to  stir  within  it.  I  passed  nights  without  sleep 
and  without  a  light,  thinking,  thinking  inces- 
santly ;  and  in  the  darkness  without  and  the 
gloom  within,  a  fearful  determination  began  to 
shape  itself  The  arrival  of  Semyon  Matveitch 
gave  another  turn  to  my  thoughts. 

No  one  had  expected  him.  It  turned  out 
that  he  was  retiring  in  unpleasant  circum- 
stances ;  he  had  hoped  to  receive  the  Alex- 
io6 


AN    UNHAPPY    GIRL 

ander  ribbon,  and  they  had  presented  him  with 
a  snuff-box.  Discontented  with  the  govern- 
ment, which  had  failed  to  appreciate  his  talents, 
and  with  Petersburg  society,  which  had  shown 
him  little  sympathy,  and  did  not  share  his 
indignation,  he  determined  to  settle  in  the 
country,  and  devote  himself  to  the  manage- 
ment of  his  property.  He  arrived  alone.  His 
son,  Mihail  Semyonitch,  arrived  later,  in  the 
holidays  for  the  New  Year.  My  stepfather  was 
scarcely  ever  out  of  Semyon  Matveitch's  room  ; 
he  still  stood  high  in  his  good  graces.  He  left 
me  in  peace ;  he  had  no  time  for  me  then  .  .  . 
Semyon  Matveitch  had  taken  it  into  his  head 
to  start  a  paper  factory.  Mr.  Ratsch  had  no 
knowledge  whatever  of  manufacturing  work, 
and  Semyon  Matveitch  was  aware  of  the  fact ; 
but  then  my  stepfather  was  an  active  man 
(the  favourite  expression  just  then),  an  '  Arakt- 
cheev  1 '  That  was  just  what  Semyon  Matveitch 
used  to  call  him — 'my  Araktcheev  ! '  'That's 
all  I  want,'  Semyon  Matveitch  maintained  ;  '  if 
there  is  zeal,  I  myself  will  direct  it.'  In  the 
midst  of  his  numerous  occupations — he  had  to 
superintend  the  factory,  the  estate,  the  founda- 
tion of  a  counting-house,  the  drawing  up  of 
counting-house  regulations,  the  creation  of  new 
offices  and  duties — Semyon  Matveitch  still  had 
time  to  attend  to  me. 

I  was  summoned  one  evening  to  the  draw- 
107 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

ing-room,  and  set  to  play  the  piano.  Semyon 
Matveitch  cared  for  music  even  less  than  his 
brother;  he  praised  and  thanked  me,  how- 
ever, and  next  day  I  was  invited  to  dine 
at  the  master's  table.  After  dinner  Semyon 
Matveitch  had  rather  a  long  conversation  with 
me,  asked  me  questions,  laughed  at  some  of 
my  replies,  though  there  was,  I  remember, 
nothing  amusing  in  them,  and  stared  at  me 
so  strangely  ...  I  felt  uncomfortable.  I  did 
not  like  his  eyes,  I  did  not  like  their  open 
expression,  their  clear  glance.  ...  It  always 
seemed  to  me  that  this  very  openness  concealed 
something  evil,  that  under  that  clear  brilliance 
it  was  dark  within  in  his  soul.  'You  shall  not 
be  my  reader,'  Semyon  Matveitch  announced 
to  me  at  last,  prinking  and  setting  himself  to 
rights  in  a  repulsive  way.  '  I  am,  thank  God, 
not  blind  yet,  and  can  read  myself;  but  coffee 
will  taste  better  to  me  from  your  little  hands, 
and  I  shall  listen  to  your  playing  with  pleasure.' 
From  that  day  I  always  went  over  to  the  big 
house  to  dinner,  and  sometimes  remained  in  the 
drawing-room  till  evening.  I  too,  like  my  step- 
father, was  in  favour :  it  was  not  a  source  of 
joy  for  me.  Semyon  Matveitch,  I  am  bound 
to  own,  showed  me  a  certain  respect,  but  in 
the  man  there  was,  I  felt  it,  something  that 
repelled  and  alarmed  me.  And  that  'some- 
thing' showed  itself  not  in  words,  but  in  his 
io8 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

eyes,  in  those  wicked  e\es,  and  in  his  laugh. 
He  never  spoke  to  me  of  my  father,  of  his 
brother,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  avoided 
the  subject,  not  because  he  did  not  want  to 
excite  ambitious  ideas  or  pretensions  in  me, 
but  from  another  cause,  to  which  I  could  not 
give  a  definite  sliape,  but  which  made  me  blush 
and  feel  bewildered.  .  .  .  Towards  Christmas 
came  his  son,  Mihail  Semyonitch. 

Ah,  I  feel  I  cannot  go  on  as  I  have  begun ; 
these  memories  are  too  painful.  Especially 
now  I  cannot  tell  my  story  calmly.  .  .  .  But 
what  is  the  use  of  concealment?  I  loved 
Michel,  and  he  loved  mc. 

How  it  came  to  pass — I  am  not  going  to 
describe  that  either.  From  the  very  evening 
when  he  came  into  the  drawing-room — I  was 
at  the  piano,  playing  a  sonata  of  Weber's  when 
he  came  in — handsome  and  slender,  in  a  velvet 
coat  lined  with  sheepskin  and  high  gaiters, 
just  as  he  was,  straight  from  the  frost  outside, 
and  shaking  his  snow-sprinkled,  sable  cap, 
before  he  had  greeted  his  father,  glanced  swiftly 
at  me,  and  wondered — I  knew  that  from  that 
evening  I  could  never  forget  him — I  could 
never  forget  that  good,  young  face.  He  began 
to  speak  .  .  .  and  his  voice  went  straight  to  my 
heart.  ...  A  manly  and  soft  voice,  and  in  every 
sound  such  a  true,  honest  nature ! 

Semyon  Matveitch  was  delighted  at  his  son's 
109 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

arrival,  embraced  him,  but  at  once  asked,  '  For 
a  fortnight,  eh  ?  On  leave,  eh  ? '  and  sent  me 
away. 

I  sat  a  long  while  at  my  window,  and  gazed 
at  the  lights  flitting  to  and  fro  in  the  rooms  of 
the  big  house.  I  watciicd  them,  I  listened  to 
the  new,  unfamiliar  voices  ;  I  was  attracted  by 
the  cheerful  commotion,  and  something  new, 
unfamiliar,  bright,  flitted  into  my  soul  too.  .  .  . 
The  next  day  before  dinner  I  had  my  first 
conversation  with  him.  He  had  come  across 
to  see  my  stepfather  with  some  message  from 
Seniyon  Matveitch,  and  he  found  me  in  our 
little  sitting-room.  I  was  getting  up  to  go  ;  he 
detained  me.  He  was  very  lively  and  un- 
constrained in  all  his  movements  and  words, 
but  of  superciliousness  or  arrogance,  of  the  tone 
of  Petersburg  superiority,  there  was  not  a  trace 
in  him,  and  nothing  of  the  officer,  of  the  guards- 
man. .  .  .  On  the  contrary,  in  the  very  freedom 
of  his  manner  there  was  something  appealing, 
almost  shamefaced,  as  though  he  were  begging 
you  to  overlook  something.  Some  people's 
eyes  are  never  laughing,  even  at  the  moment 
of  laughter ;  with  him  it  was  the  lips  that 
almost  never  changed  their  beautiful  line,  while 
his  eyes  were  almost  always  smiling.  So  we 
chatted  for  about  an  hour  .  .  .  what  about  I 
don't  remember ;  I  remember  only  that  I 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face  all  the  while, 
no 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

and  oh,  how  delightfully  at  ease  I  felt  with 
him ! 

In  the  evening  I  played  on  the  piano.  He 
was  very  fond  of  music,  and  he  sat  down  in  a 
low  chair,  and  laying  his  curly  head  on  his  arm, 
he  listened  intently.  He  did  not  once  praise 
me,  but  I  felt  that  he  liked  my  playing,  and  I 
played  with  ardour.  Semyon  Matveitch,  who 
was  sitting  near  his  son,  looking  through  some 
plans,  suddenly  frowned.  '  Come,  madam,'  he 
said,  smoothing  himself  down  and  buttoning 
himself  up,  as  his  manner  was,  'that's  enough ; 
why  are  you  trilling  away  like  a  canary  ?  It's 
enough  to  make  one's  head  ache.  For  us  old 
folks  you  wouldn't  exert  yourself  so,  no  fear  .  .  ,' 
he  added  in  an  undertone,  and  again  he  sent 
me  away.  Michel  followed  me  to  the  door 
with  his  eyes,  and  got  up  from  his  seat.  'Where 
are  you  off  to  ?  Where  are  you  off  to  ? ' 
cried  Semyon  Matveitch,  and  he  suddenly 
laughed,  and  then  said  something  more  .  .  . 
I  could  not  catch  his  words ;  but  Mr.  Ratsch, 
who  was  present,  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the 
drawing-room  (he  was  always  'present,'  and 
that  time  he  had  brought  in  the  plans), 
laughed,  and  his  laugh  reached  my  ears.  .  .  . 
The  same  thing,  or  almost  the  same  thing, 
was  repeated  the  following  evening  .  .  .  Semyon 
Matveitch  grew  suddenly  cooler  to  me. 

Four  days  later  I  met  Michel  in  the  corridor 
III 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

that  divided  the  big  house  in  two.  He  took 
me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  to  a  room  near 
the  dining-room,  which  was  called  the  portrait 
gallery.  I  followed  him,  not  without  emotion, 
but  with  perfect  confidence.  Even  then,  I 
believe,  I  would  have  followed  him  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  though  I  had  as  yet  no  suspicion 
of  all  that  he  was  to  me.  Alas,  I  loved  him 
with  all  the  passion,  all  the  despair  of  a  young 
creature  who  not  only  has  no  one  to  love, 
but  feels  herself  an  uninvited  and  unnecessary 
guest  among  strangers,  among  enemies  !  .  .  . 

Michel  said  to  me — and  it  was  strange ! 
I  looked  boldly,  directly  in  his  face,  while  he 
did  not  look  at  me,  and  flushed  slightly — he 
said  to  me  that  he  understood  my  position, 
and  sympathised  with  me,  and  begged  me  to 
forgive  his  father.  ...  *  As  far  as  I  'm  con- 
cerned,' he  added,  '  I  beseech  you  always  to 
trust  me,  and  believe  me,  to  me  you  're  a 
sister — yes,  a  sister.'  Here  he  pressed  my 
hand  warmly.  I  was  confused,  it  was  my  turn 
to  look  down  ;  I  had  somehow  expected  some- 
thing else,  some  other  word.  I  began  to  thank 
him.  •  No,  please,' — he  cut  me  short — *  don't 
talk  like  that .  .  .  But  remember,  it 's  a  brother's 
duty  to  defend  his  sister,  and  if  you  ever  need 
protection,  against  any  one  whatever,  rely  upon 
me.  I  have  not  been  here  long,  but  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  already  .  .  .  and  among  other 

112 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

things,  I  see  through  your  stepfather.'  He 
squeezed  my  hand  again,  and  left  me. 

I  found  out  later  that  Michel  had  felt  an 
aversion  for  Mr.  Ratsch  from  his  very  first 
meeting  with  him.  Mr.  Ratsch  tried  to  in- 
gratiate himself  with  him  too,  but  becoming 
convinced  of  the  uselessness  of  his  efforts, 
promptly  took  up  himself  an  attitude  of 
hostility  to  him,  and  not  only  did  not  disguise 
it  from  Semyon  Matveitch,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, lost  no  opportunity  of  showing  it,  ex- 
pressing, at  the  same  time,  his  regret  that  he 
had  been  so  unlucky  as  to  displease  the  young 
heir.  Mr.  Ratsch  had  carefully  studied  Semyon 
Matveitch's  character  ;  his  calculations  did  not 
lead  him  astray.  'This  man's  devotion  to  me 
admits  of  no  doubt,  for  the  very  reason  that 
after  I  am  gone  he  will  be  ruined  ;  my  heir 
cannot  endure  him.'  .  .  .  This  idea  grew  and 
strengthened  in  the  old  man's  head.  They  say 
all  persons  in  power,  as  they  grow  old,  are 
readily  caught  by  that  bait,  the  bait  of  ex- 
clusive personal  devotion.  .  .  . 

Semyon  Matveitch  had  good  reason  to  call 
Mr.  Ratsch  his  Araktcheev.  .  .  .  He  might  well 
have  called  him  another  name  too.  '  You  're 
not  one  to  make  difficulties,'  he  used  to  say  to 
him.  He  had  begun  in  this  condescendingly 
familiar  tone  with  him  from  the  very  first,  and 
my  stepfather  would  gaze  fondly  at  Semyon 

H  113 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Matveitch,  let  his  head  droop  deprecatingly  on 
one  side,  and  laugh  with  good-humoured  sim- 
plicity, as  though  to  say,  *  Here  I  am,  entirely 
in  your  hands.' 

Ah,  I  feel  my  hands  shaking,  and  my  heart's 
thumping  against  the  table  on  which  I  write 
at  this  moment.  It 's  terrible  for  me  to  recall 
those  days,  and  my  blood  boils.  .  .  .  But  I 
will  tell  everything  to  the  end  ...  to  the  end  ! 

A  new  element  had  come  into  Mr.  Ratsch's 
treatment  of  me  during  my  brief  period  of 
favour.  He  began  to  be  deferential  to  me,  to 
be  respectfully  familiar  with  me,  as  though  I 
had  grown  sensible,  and  become  more  on  a 
level  with  him.  'You've  done  with  your  airs 
and  graces,'  he  said  to  me  one  day,  as  we  were 
going  back  from  the  big  house  to  the  lodge. 
'  Quite  right  too !  All  those  fine  principles 
and  delicate  sentiments  —  moral  precepts  in 
fact — are  not  for  us,  young  lady,  they're  not 
for  poor  folks.' 

When  I  had  fallen  out  of  favour,  and  Michel 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  disguise  his  con- 
tempt for  Mr.  Ratsch  and  his  sympathy  with 
me,  the  latter  suddenly  redoubled  his  severity 
with  me ;  he  was  continually  following  me 
about,  as  though  I  were  capable  of  any  crime, 
and  must  be  sharply  looked  after.  'You  mind 
what  I  say,'  he  shouted,  bursting  without  knock- 
ing into  my  room,  in  muddy  b'lots  and  with  his 
X14 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

cap  on  his  head  ;  '  I  won't  put  up  with  such 
goings  on  !  I  won't  stand  your  stuck-up  airs ! 
You  're  not  going  to  impose  on  me.  I  '11  break 
your  proud  spirit.' 

And  accordingly,  one  morning  he  informed 
me  that  the  decree  had  gone  forth  from  Semyon 
Matveitch  that  I  was  not  to  appear  at  the 
dinner-table  for  the  future  without  special  in- 
vitation. ...  I  don't  know  how  all  this  would 
have  ended  if  it  had  not  been  for  an  event  which 
was  the  final  turning-point  of  my  destiny.  .  .  . 

Michel  was  passionately  fond  of  horses.  He 
took  it  into  his  head  to  break  in  a  young 
horse,  which  went  well  for  a  while,  then  began 
kicking  and  flung  him  out  of  the  sledge.  .  .  , 
He  was  brought  home  unconscious,  with  a 
broken  arm  and  bruises  on  his  chest.  His 
father  was  panic-stricken  ;  he  sent  for  the  best 
doctors  from  the  town.  They  did  a  great  deal 
for  Michel ;  but  he  had  to  He  down  for  a  month. 
He  did  not  play  cards,  the  doctor  forbade  him 
to  talk,  and  it  was  awkward  for  him  to  read, 
holding  the  book  up  in  one  hand  all  the  while. 
It  ended  by  Semyon  Matveitch  sending  me  in 
to  his  son,  in  my  old  capacity  of  reader. 

Then  followed  hours  I  can  never  forget !  I 
used  to  go  in  to  Michel  directly  after  dinner,  and 
sit  at  a  little  round  table  in  the  half-darkened 
window.  He  used  to  be  lying  down  in  a  little 
room  out  of  the  drawing-room,  at  the  further 
IIS 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

end,  on  a  broad  leather  sofa  in  the  Empire 
style,  with  a  gold  bas-relief  on  its  high,  straight 
back.  The  bas-relief  represented  a  marriage 
procession  among  the  ancients.  Michel's 
head,  thrown  a  little  back  on  the  pillow, 
always  moved  at  once,  and  his  pale  face 
turned  towards  me :  he  smiled,  his  whole 
face  brightened,  he  flung  back  his  soft,  damp 
curls,  and  said  to  me  softly,  '  Good-morning, 
my  kind  sweet  girl.'  I  took  up  the  book — 
Walter  Scott's  novels  were  at  the  height  of 
their  fame  in  those  days — the  reading  of  Ivan- 
hoe  has  left  a  particularly  vivid  recollection 
in  my  mind.  ...  I  could  not  help  my  voice 
thrilling  and  quivering  as  I  gave  utterance  to 
Rebecca's  speeches.  I,  too,  had  Jewish  blood, 
and  was  not  my  lot  like  hers  ?  Was  I  not,  like 
Rebecca,  waiting  on  a  sick  man,  dear  to  me  ? 
Every  time  I  removed  my  eyes  from  the  page 
and  lifted  them  to  him,  I  met  his  eyes  with  the 
same  soft,  bright  smile  over  all  his  face.  We 
talked  very  little  ;  the  door  into  the  drawing- 
room  was  invariably  open  and  some  one  was 
always  sitting  there  ;  but  whenever  it  was  quiet 
there,  I  used,  I  don't  know  why,  to  cease  read- 
ing and  look  intently  at  Michel,  and  he  looked 
at  me,  and  we  both  felt  happy  then  and,  as  it 
were,  glad  and  shamefaced,  and  everything, 
everything  we  told  each  other  then  without 
a  gesture  or  a  word  !  Alas  !  our  hearts 
ii6 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

came  tofjether,  ran  to  meet  each  other,  as 
underground  streams  flow  together,  unseen, 
unheard  .  .  .  and  irresistibly. 

'Can  you  play  chess  or  draughts?'  he  asked 
me  one  day. 

'  I  can  play  chess  a  little,'  I  answered. 

'That's  good.  Tell  them  to  bring  a  chess- 
board and  push  up  the  table.' 

I  sat  down  beside  the  sofa,  my  heart  was 
throbbing,  I  did  not  dare  glance  at  Michel,  . .  . 
Yet  from  the  window,  across  the  room,  how 
freely  I  had  gazed  at  him  I 

I  began  to  set  the  chessmen  .  .  .  My  fingers 
shook. 

'  I  suggested  it  .  .  .  not  for  the  game,'  .  .  . 
Michel  said  in  an  undertone,  also  setting  the 
pieces,  *  but  to  have  you  nearer  me.' 

I  made  no  answer,  but,  without  asking  which 
should  begin,  moved  a  pawn  .  .  .  Michel  did 
not  move  in  reply  ...  I  looked  at  him.  His 
head  was  stretched  a  little  forward  ;  pale  all 
over,  with  imploring  eyes  he  signed  towards 
my  hand  .  .  . 

Whether  I  understood  him  ...  I  don't 
remember,  but  something  instantaneously 
whirled  into  my  head.  .  .  .  Hesitating,  scarcely 
breathing,  I  took  up  the  knight  and  moved 
it  right  across  the  board.  Michel  bent  down 
swiftly,  and  catching  my  fingers  with  his  lips, 
and  pressing  them  against  the  board,  he  began 
117 


AN   UNHAPPY   GIRL 

noiselessly  and  passionately  kissing  them.  .  ,  , 
I  had  no  power,  I  had  no  wish  to  draw  them 
back  ;  with  my  other  hand  I  hid  my  face,  and 
tears,  as  I  remember  now,  cold  but  blissful  .  .  . 
oh,  what  blissful  tears !  .  .  .  dropped  one  by 
one  on  the  table.  Ah,  I  knew,  with  my  whole 
heart  I  felt  at  that  moment,  all  that  he  was 
who  held  my  hand  in  his  power  !  I  knew  that 
he  was  not  a  boy,  carried  away  by  a  momentary 
impulse,  not  a  Don  Juan,  not  a  military  Love- 
lace, but  one  of  the  noblest,  the  best  of  men  .  .  . 
and  he  loved  me! 

'  Oh,  my  Susanna  ! '  I  heard  Michel  whisper, 
'  I  will  never  make  you  shed  other  tears  than 
these.' 

He  was  wrong  ...  he  did. 

But  what  use  is  there  in  dwelling  on  such 
memories  .  .  .  especially,  especially  nov/? 

Michel  and  I  swore  to  belong  to  each  other. 
He  knew  that  Semyon  Matveitch  would  never 
let  him  marry  me,  and  he  did  not  conceal  it 
from  me.  I  had  no  doubt  about  it  myself  and 
I  rejoiced,  not  that  he  did  not  deceive  me — he 
could  not  deceive — but  that  he  did  not  try  to 
delude  himself  For  myself  I  asked  for  nothing, 
and  would  have  followed  where  and  how  he 
chose.  '  You  shall  be  my  wife,'  he  repeated  to 
me.  '  I  am  not  Ivanhoe  ;  I  know  that  happi- 
ness is  not  with  Lady  Rowena.' 

Michel  soon  regained  his  health.  I  could 
Ii8 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

not  continue  going  to  see  him,  but  everything 
was  decided  between  us.  I  was  already  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  the  future  ;  I  saw  nothing 
of  what  was  passing  around  me,  as  though  I 
were  floating  on  a  glorious,  calm,  but  rushing 
river,  hidden  in  mist.  But  we  were  watched, 
we  were  being  spied  upon.  Once  or  twice  I 
noticed  my  stepfather's  malignant  eyes,  and 
heard  his  loathsome  laugh.  .  .  .  But  that 
laugh,  those  eyes  as  it  were  emerged  for  an 
instant  from  the  mist  ...  I  shuddered,  but 
forgot  it  directly,  and  surrendered  myself 
again  to  the  glorious,  swift  river  .  .  . 

On  the  day  before  the  departure  of  Michel — 
we  had  planned  together  that  he  was  to  turn 
back  secretly  on  the  way  and  fetch  me — I 
received  from  him  through  his  trusted  valet  a 
note,  in  which  he  asked  me  to  meet  him  at  half- 
past  nine  in  the  summer  billiard-room,  a  large, 
low-pitched  room,  built  on  to  the  big  house  in 
the  garden.  He  wrote  to  me  that  he  absolutely 
must  speak  with  me  and  arrange  things.  I  had 
twice  already  met  Michel  in  the  billiard-room  . . . 
I  had  the  key  of  the  outer  door.  As  soon  as  it 
struck  half-past  nine  I  threw  a  warm  wrap 
over  my  shoulders,  stepped  quietly  out  of  the 
lodge,  and  made  my  way  successfully  over 
the  crackling  snow  to  the  billiard-room.  The 
moon,  wrapped  in  vapour,  stood  a  dim  blur 
just  over  the  ridge  of  the  roof,  and  the  wind 
119 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

whistled  shrilly  round  the  corner  of  the  wall. 
A  shiver  passed  over  me,  but  I  put  the  key 
into  the  lock,  went  into  the  room,  closed  the 
door  behind  me,  turned  round  ...  A  dark 
figure  became  visible  against  one  of  the  walls, 
took  a  couple  of  steps  forward,  stopped  .  .  . 
'  Michel,'  I  whispered. 

*  Michel  is  locked  up  by  my  orders,  and  this 
is  I  ! '  answered  a  voice,  which  seemed  to  rend 
my  heart  .  .  . 

Before  me  stood  Semyon  Matveitch ! 
I  was  rushing  to  escape,  but  he  clutched  at 
my  arm. 

*  Where  are  you  off  to,  vile  hussy? '  he  hissed. 
'  You  're  quite  equal  to  stolen  interviews  with 
young  fools,  so  you  '11  have  to  be  equal  to  the 
consequences.' 

I  was  numb  with  horror,  but  still  struggled 
towards  the  door  ...  In  vain !  Like  iron 
hooks  the  fingers  of  Semyon  Matveitch  held 
me  tight. 

'  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,'  I  implored  at  last. 

'  I  tell  you  you  shan't  stir  ! ' 

Semyon  Matveitch  forced  me  to  sit  down. 
In  the  half-darkness  I  could  not  distinguish 
his  face.  I  had  turned  away  from  him  too,  but 
I  heard  him  breathing  hard  and  grinding  his 
teeth.  I  felt  neither  fear  nor  desjiair,  but  a 
sort  of  senseless  amazement  ...  A  captured 
bird,  I  suppose,  is  numb  like  that  in  the  claws 
1 20 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

of  the  kite  .  .  .  and  Semyon  Matveitch's  hand, 
which  still  held  me  as  fast,  crushed  me  h"ke 
some  wild,  ferocious  claw.  .  .  . 

'  Aha  ! '  he  repeated  ;  '  aha  !  So  this  is  how 
it  is  .  ,  .  so  it 's  come  to  this  .  .  .  Ah,  wait  a 
bit!' 

I  tried  to  get  up,  but  he  shook  me  with  such 
violence  that  I  almost  shrieked  with  pain,  and 
a  stream  of  abuse,  insult,  and  menace  burst 
upon  me  .  .  . 

'  Michel,  Michel,  where  are  you  ?  save  me,'  I 
moaned. 

Semyon  Matveitch  shook  me  again  .  .  .  That 
time  I  could  not  control  myself  ...  I  screamed. 

That  seemed  to  have  some  effect  on  him. 
He  became  a  little  quieter,  let  go  my  arm,  but 
remained  where  he  was,  two  steps  from  me, 
between  me  and  the  door. 

A  few  minutes  passed  ...  I  did  not  stir  ; 
he  breathed  heavily  as  before. 

'  Sit  still,'  he  began  at  last,  *  and  answer  me. 
Let  me  see  that  your  morals  are  not  yet 
utterly  corrupt,  and  that  you  are  still  capable 
of  listening  to  the  voice  of  reason.  Impulsive 
folly  I  can  overlook,  but  stubborn  obstinacy — 
never !  My  son  .  .  .'  there  was  a  catch  in  his 
breath  .  .  .  '  Mihail  Semyonitch  has  promised 
to  marry  you  ?  Hasn't  he?  Answer  me!  Has 
he  promised,  eh  ? ' 

I  answered,  of  course,  nothing. 

I2t 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Semyon  Matveitch  was  almost  flying  into 
fury  again. 

*  I  take  your  silence  as  a  sign  of  assent,' 
he  went  on,  after  a  brief  pause.  '  And  so  you 
were  plotting  to  be  my  daughter-in-law?  A 
pretty  notion !  But  you're  not  a  child  of  four 
years  old,  and  you  must  be  fully  aware  that 
young  boobies  are  never  sparing  of  the  wildest 
promises,  if  only  they  can  gain  their  ends  .  .  . 
but  to  say  nothing  of  that,  could  you  suppose 
that  I — a  noble  gentleman  of  ancient  family, 
Semyon  Matveitch  Koltovsky — would  ever 
give  my  consent  to  such  a  marriage  ?  Or  did 
you  mean  to  dispense  with  the  parental  bless- 
ing ?  .  ,  .  Did  you  mean  to  run  away,  get 
married  in  secret,  and  then  come  back,  go 
through  a  nice  little  farce,  throw  yourself  at 
my  feet,  in  the  hope  that  the  old  man  will  be 
touched.  .  .  .  Answer  me,  damn  you  ! ' 

I  only  bent  my  head.  He  could  kill  me, 
but  to  force  me  to  speak — that  was  not  in  his 
power. 

He  walked  up  and  down  a  little. 

'  Come,  listen  to  me,'  he  began  in  a  calmer 
voice.  'You  mustn't  think  .  .  .  don't  imagine  .  .  . 
I  see  one  must  talk  to  you  in  a  different 
manner.  Listen  ;  I  understand  your  position. 
You  are  frightened,  upset.  .  .  .  Pull  yourself 
together.  At  this  moment  I  must  seem  to  you 
a  monster  ...  a  despot.     But  put  yourself  in 

122 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

my  position  too  ;  how  could  I  help  being  in- 
dignant, saying  too  much  ?  And  for  all  that  I 
have  shown  you  that  I  am  not  a  monster,  that 
I  too  have  a  heart.  Remember  how  I  treated 
you  on  my  arrival  here  and  afterwards  till  ,  .  . 
till  lately  .  .  .  till  the  illness  of  Mihail  Scmyon- 
itch.  I  don't  wish  to  boast  of  my  beneficence, 
but  I  should  have  thought  simple  gratitude 
ought  to  have  held  you  back  from  the  slippery 
path  on  which  you  were  determined  to  enter ! ' 

Semyon  Matveitch  walked  to  and  fro  again, 
and  standing  still  patted  me  lightly  on  the 
arm,  on  the  very  arm  which  still  ached  from 
his  violence,  and  was  for  long  after  marked 
with  blue  bruises. 

'To  be  sure,'  he  began  again,  'we're  head- 
strong .  .  .  just  a  little  headstrong  !  We  don't 
care  to  take  the  trouble  to  think,  we  don't  care 
to  consider  what  our  advantage  consists  in  and 
where  we  ought  to  seek  it.  You  ask  me : 
where  that  advantage  lies  ?  You  've  no  need 
to  look  far.  ...  It 's,  maybe,  close  at  hand.  .  .  . 
Here  am  I  now.  As  a  father,  as  head  of  the 
family  I  am  bound  to  be  particular.  ...  It's 
my  duty.  But  I  'm  a  man  at  the  same  time,  and 
you  know  that  very  well.  Undoubtedly  I  'm  a 
practical  person  and  of  course  cannot  tolerate 
any  sentimental  nonsense  ;  expectations  that 
are  quite  inconsistent  with  everything,  you 
must  of  course  dismiss  from  your  mind  for 
123 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

really  what  sense  is  there  in  them  ? — not  to 
speak  of  the  immorality  of  such  a  proceeding. 
.  .  .  You  will  assuredly  realise  all  this  yourself, 
when  you  have  thought  it  over  a  Httle.  Ami 
I  say,  simply  and  straightforwardly,  I  wouldn't 
confine  myself  to  what  I  have  done  for  you. 
I  have  always  been  prepared — and  I  am  still 
prepared — to  put  your  welfare  on  a  sound 
footing,  to  guarantee  you  a  secure  position, 
because  I  know  your  value,  I  do  justice  to  your 
talents,  and  your  intelligence,  and  in  fact  .  .  . 
(here  Semyon  Matveitch  stooped  down  to  me 
a  little)  .  .  .  you  have  such  eyes  that,  I  con- 
fess .  .  .  though  I  am  not  a  young  man,  yet  to 
see  them  quite  unmoved  ...  I  understand  .  .  . 
is  not  an  easy  matter,  not  at  all  an  easy  matter.* 

These  words  sent  a  chill  through  me.  I 
could  scarcely  believe  my  ears.  For  the  first 
minute  I  fancied  that  Semyon  Matveitch  meant 
to  bribe  me  to  break  with  Michel,  to  pay  me 
'compensation.'  .  .  .  But  what  was  he  saying? 
My  eyes  had  begun  to  get  used  to  the  dark- 
ness and  I  could  make  out  Semyon  Matveitch's 
face.  It  was  smiling,  that  old  face,  and  he  was 
walking  to  and  fro  with  little  steps,  fidgeting 
restlessly  before  me.  .  .  . 

'  Well,  what  do  you  say,'  he  asked  at  last, 
'  does  my  offer  please  you  ? ' 

'Offer?'  ...  I  repeated  unconsciously,  .  ,  , 
I  simply  did  not  understand  a  word. 

124 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Semyon  Matveitch  laughed  .  ,  .  actually 
laughed  his  revolting  thin  laugh. 

*To  be  sure,'  he  cried,  'you're  all  alike 
you  young  women' — he  corrected  himself — 
'  young  ladies  .  .  .  young  ladies  .  .  .  you  all 
dream  of  nothing  else  .  .  .  you  must  have 
young  men  !  You  can't  live  without  love !  Of 
course  not.  Well,  well !  Youth 's  all  very 
well  1  But  do  you  suppose  that  it 's  only  young 
men  that  can  love  ?  .  .  .  There  are  some  older 
men,  whose  hearts  are  warmer  .  .  .  and  when 
once  an  old  man  does  take  a  fancy  to  any  one, 
well — he's  simply  like  a  rock!  It's  for  ever! 
Not  like  these  beardless,  feather-brained  young 
fools !  Yes,  yes  ;  you  mustn't  look  down  on 
old  men !  They  can  do  so  much  I  You  've 
only  to  take  them  the  right  way !  Yes  .  .  . 
yes  !  And  as  for  kissing,  old  men  know  all  about 
that  too,  he-he-he  .  .  .'  Semyon  Matveitch 
laughed  again.  '  Come,  please  .  .  .  your  little 
hand  .  .  .  just  as  a  proof  .  .  .  that 's  all.  .  .  .' 

I  jumped  up  from  the  chair,  and  with  all 
my  force  I  gave  him  a  blow  in  the  chest.  He 
tottered,  he  uttered  a  sort  of  decrepit,  scared 
sound,  he  almost  fell  down.  There  are  no  words 
in  human  language  to  express  how  loathsome 
and  infinitely  vile  he  seemed  to  me.  Every 
vestige  of  fear  had  left  me. 

'Get  away,  despicable  old  man,'  broke  from 
my  lips  ;  'get  away,  Mr.  Koltovsky,  you  noble 
125 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

gentleman  of  ancient  family!  I,  too,  am  of 
your  blood,  the  blood  of  the  Koltovskys,  and 
I  curse  the  day  and  the  hour  when  I  was  born 
of  that  ancient  family  ! ' 

*  What !  .  .  .  What  are  you  saying !  .  .  . 
What !' stammered  Semyon  Matveitch,  gasp- 
ing for  breath.  'You  dare  ...  at  the  very 
minute  when  I  've  caught  you  .  .  .  when  you 
came  to  meet  Misha  ...  eh  ?  eh?  eh?' 

But  I  could  not  stop  myself.  .  .  .  Something 
relentless,  desperate  was  roused  up  within  me. 

'  And  you,  you,  the  brother  ...  of  your 
brother,  you  had  the  insolence,  you  dared  .  .  . 
What  did  you  take  me  for  ?  Can  you  be  so 
blind  as  not  to  have  seen  long  ago  the  loath- 
ing you  arouse  in  me  ?  .  .  .  You  dare  use 
the  word  offer !  .  .  .  Let  me  out  at  once,  this 
instant ! ' 

I  moved  towards  the  door. 

*  Oh,  indeed  !  oh,  oh  !  so  this  is  what  she 
says!'  Semyon  Matveitch  piped  shrilly,  in  a  fit 
of  violent  fury,  but  obviously  not  able  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  come  near  me.  .  .  .  'Wait  a 
bit,  Mr.  Ratsch,  Ivan  Demianitch,  come  here ! ' 

The  door  of  the  billiard-room  opposite  the 
one  I  was  near  flew  wide  open,  and  my  step- 
father appeared,  with  a  lighted  candelabrum  in 
each  hand.  His  round,  red  face,  lii^hted  up  on 
both  sides,  was  beaming  with  the  triumph  of 
satisfied  revenge,  and  slavish  delight  at  having 
126 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

rendered  valuable  service.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  loath- 
some white  eyes  !  when  shall  I  cease  to  behold 
them  ? 

'  Be  so  good  as  to  take  this  girl  at  once,' 
cried  Semyon  IMatveitch,  turning  to  my  step- 
father and  imperiously  pointing  to  me  with  a 
shaking  hand.  '  Be  so  good  as  to  take  her 
home  and  put  her  under  lock  and  key  ...  so 
that  she  .  .  .  can't  stir  a  finger,  so  that  not  a 
fly  can  get  in  to  her  !  Till  further  orders  from 
me!  Board  up  the  windows  if  need  be  !  You'll 
answer  for  her  with  your  head  ! ' 

Mr.  Ratsch  set  the  candelabra  on  the  billiard- 
table,  made  Semyon  Matveitch  a  low  bow,  and 
with  a  slight  swagger  and  a  malignant  smile, 
moved  towards  me.  A  cat,  I  imagine,approaches 
a  mouse  who  has  no  chance  of  escape  in  that 
way.  All  my  daring  left  me  in  an  instant.  I 
knew  the  man  was  capable  of  .  .  .  beating  me. 
I  began  to  tremble ;  yes ;  oh,  shame !  oh 
ignominy !  I  shivered. 

'  Now,  then,  madam,'  said  Mr.  Ratsch,  'kindly 
come  along.' 

He  took  me,  without  haste,  by  the  arm  above 
the  elbow.  .  .  .  He  saw  that  I  should  not  resist. 
Of  my  own  accord  I  pushed  forward  towards 
the  door  ;  at  that  instant  I  had  but  one  thought 
in  my  mind,  to  escape  as  quickly  as  possible 
from  the  presence  of  Semyon  Matveitch. 

But  the  loathsome  old  man  darted  up  to  us 
127 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

from  behind,  and  Ratsch  stopped  me  and  turned 
me  round  face  to  face  with  his  patron. 

'Ah!'  the  latter  shouted,  shaking  his  fist; 
'  ah  !  So  I  'm  the  brother  ...  of  my  brother, 
am  I  ?  Ties  of  blood  !  eh  ?  But  a  cousin,  a 
first  cousin  you  could  marry?  You  could?  eh? 
Take  her,  you !  '  he  turned  to  my  stepfather. 
'And  remember,  keep  a  sharp  look-out!  The 
slightest  communication  with  her  —  and  no 
punishment  will  be  too  severe.  .  .  .  Take  her  ! ' 

Mr,  Ratsch  conducted  me  to  my  room. 
Crossing  the  courtyard,  he  said  nothing,  but 
kept  laughing  noiselessly  to  himself.  He  closed 
the  shutters  and  the  doors,  and  then,  as  he  was 
finally  returning,  he  bowed  low  to  me  as  he 
had  to  Semyon  Matveitch,  and  went  off  into  a 
ponderous,  triumphant  guffaw ! 

'Good-night  to  your  highness,'  he  gasped 
out,  choking  :  '  she  didn't  catch  her  fairy  prince  ! 
What  a  pity  !  It  wasn't  a  bad  idea  in  its  way! 
It's  a  lesson  for  the  future:  not  to  keep  up 
correspondence!  Ho-ho-ho!  How  capitally 
it  has  all  turned  out  though!'  He  went  out, 
and  all  of  a  sudden  poked  his  head  in  at  the 
door.  'Well?  I  didn't  forget  you,  did  I? 
Hey?  I  kept  my  promise,  didn't  I  ?  Ho-ho!' 
The  key  creaked  in  the  lock.  I  breathed  freely. 
I  had  been  afraid  he  would  tie  my  hands  .  .  . 
but  they  were  my  own,  they  were  free !  I 
instantly   wrenched   the   silken    cord    off    my 

T2? 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

dressing-gown,  made  a  noose,  and  was  putting 
it  on  iTiy  neck,  but  I  flung  the  cord  aside  again 
at  once.  '  I  won't  please  you  !'  1  said  aloud, 
'  What  madness,  really  I  Can  I  dispose  of  my 
life  without  Michel's  leave,  my  life,  which  I 
have  surrendered  into  his  keeping  ?  No,  cruel 
wretches  !  No  !  You  have  not  won  your  game 
yet!  He  will  save  me,  he  will  tear  me  out  of 
this  hell,  he  ...  my  Michel ! ' 

But  then  I  remembered  that  he  was  shut 
up  just  as  I  was,  and  I  flung  myself,  face 
downwards,  on  my  bed,  and  sobbed  .  .  .  and 
sobbed.  .  .  .  And  only  the  thought  that  my 
tormentor  was  perhaps  at  the  door,  listening 
and  triumphing,  only  that  thought  forced  me 
to  swallow  my  tears.  .  .  . 

I  am  worn  out.  I  have  been  writing  since 
morning,  and  now  it  is  evening ;  if  once  I  tear 
myself  from  this  sheet  of  paper,  I  shall  not  be 
capable  of  taking  up  the  pen  again.  ...  I  must 
hasten,  hasten  to  the  finish  !  And  besides,  to 
dwell  on  the  hideous  things  that  followed  that 
dreadful  day  is  beyond  my  strength ! 

Twenty-four  hours  later  I  was  taken  in  a 
closed  cart  to  an  isolated  hut,  surrounded  by 
peasants,  who  were  to  watch  me,  and  kept 
shut  up  for  six  whole  weeks !  I  was  not  for 
one  instant  alone.  .  .  .  Later  on  I  learnt  that  my 
stepfather  had  set  spies  to  watch  both  Michel 
and  me  ever  since  his  arrival,  that  he  had 
I  129 


AN   UNHAPPY   GIRL 

bribed  the  servant,  who  had  given  me  Michel's 
note.  I  ascertained  too  that  an  awful,  heart- 
rending scene  had  taken  place  the  next  morning 
between  the  son  and  the  father,  .  .  .  The  father 
had  cursed  him.  Michel  for  his  part  had  sworn 
he  would  never  set  foot  in  his  father's  house 
again,  and  had  set  off  to  Petersburg.  But  the 
blow  aimed  at  me  by  my  stepfather  rebounded 
upon  himself.  Semyon  Matveitch  announced 
that  he  could  not  have  him  remaining  there, 
and  managing  the  estate  any  longer.  Awkward 
service,  it  seems,  is  an  unpardonable  offence, 
and  some  one  must  be  fixed  upon  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  scandal.  Semyon  Matveitch  re- 
compensed Mr.  Ratsch  liberally,  however :  he 
gave  him  the  necessary  means  to  move  to 
Moscow  and  to  establish  himself  there.  Before 
the  departure  for  Moscow,  I  was  brought  back 
to  the  lodge,  but  kept  as  before  under  the 
strictest  guard.  The  loss  of  the  '  snug  little 
berth,'  of  which  he  was  being  deprived  *  thanks 
to  me,'  increased  my  stepfather's  vindictive 
rage  against  me  more  than  ever. 

'  Why  did  you  make  such  a  fuss?'  he  would 
say,  almost  snorting  with  indignation  ;  '  upon 
my  word  !  The  old  chap,  of  course,  got  a  little 
too  hot,  was  a  little  too  much  in  a  hurry,  and 
so  he  made  a  mess  of  it  ;  now,  of  course,  his 
vanity's  hurt,  there's  no  setting  the  mischief 
right  again  now!  If  you'd  only  waited  a  day 
130 


AN    UNIlAPrV   GIRL 

or  two,  it'd  all  have  been  right  as  a  trivet  j  you 
wouldn't  have  been  kept  on  dry  bread,  and  I 
should  have  stayed  what  I  was  !  Ah,  well, 
women's  hair  is  long  .  .  .  but  their  wit  is  short ! 
Never  mind;  I'll  be  oven  with  you  yet,  and 
that  pretty  young  gentleman  shall  smart  for 
it  too ! ' 

I  had,  of  course,  to  bear  all  these  insults  in 
silence.  Semyon  Matvcitch  I  did  not  once 
see  again.  The  separation  from  his  son  had 
been  a  shock  to  him  too.  Whether  he  felt 
remorse  or — which  is  far  more  likely — wished 
to  bind  me  for  ever  to  my  home,  to  my 
family — my  family  ! — anyway,  he  assigned  me 
a  pension,  which  was  to  be  paid  into  my 
stepfather's  hands,  and  to  be  given  to  me  till 
I  married.  .  .  .  This  humiliating  alms,  this 
pension  I  still  receive  .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  Mr. 
Ratsch  receives  it  for  me.  .  .  . 

We  settled  in  Moscow.  I  swear  by  the 
memory  of  my  poor  mother,  I  would  not  have 
remained  two  days,  not  two  hours,  with  my 
stepfather,  after  once  reaching  the  town  ...  I 
would  have  gone  away,  not  knowing  where  .  .  , 
to  the  police;  I  would  have  flung  myself  at  the 
feet  of  the  governor-general,  of  the  senators ; 
I  don't  know  what  I  would  have  done,  if  it 
had  not  happened,  at  the  very  moment  of 
our  starting  from  the  country,  that  the  girl 
who  had  been  our  maid  managed  to  give 
131 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

me  a  letter  from  Michel!  Oh,  that  letter! 
How  many  times  I  read  over  each  line,  how 
many  times  I  covered  it  with  kisses  !  Michel 
besought  me  not  to  lose  heart,  to  go  on  hoping, 
to  believe  in  his  unchanging  love  ;  he  swore  that 
he  would  never  belong  to  any  one  but  me  ;  he 
called  me  his  wife,  he  promised  to  overcome  all 
hindrances,  he  drew  a  picture  of  our  future,  he 
asked  of  me  only  one  thing,  to  be  patient,  to 
wait  a  little,  .  .  . 

And  I  resolved  to  wait  and  be  patient.  Alas  ! 
what  would  I  not  have  agreed  to,  what  would 
I  not  have  borne,  simply  to  do  his  will !  That 
letter  became  my  holy  thing,  my  guiding  star, 
my  anchor.  Sometimes  when  my  stepfather 
would  begin  abusing  and  insulting  me,  I  would 
softly  lay  my  hand  on  my  bosom  (I  wore 
Michel's  letter  sewed  into  an  amulet)  and  only 
smile.  And  the  more  violent  and  abusive  was 
Mr.  Ratsch,  the  easier,  lighter,  and  sweeter  was 
the  heart  within  me,  ...  I  used  to  see,  at 
last,  by  his  eyes,  that  he  began  to  wonder 
whether  I  was  going  out  of  my  mind.  ,  .  , 
Following  on  this  first  letter  came  a  second, 
still  more  full  of  hope.  ...  It  spoke  of  our 
meeting  soon, 

Alas !  instead  of  that  meeting  there  came  a 

morning  ...  I  can  see  Mr.  Ratsch  coming  in 

— and  triumph  again,  malignant   triumph,  in 

his   face — and    in    his   hands   a    page   of    the 

132 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Invalid,  and  there  the  announcement  of  the 
death  of  the  Captain  of  the  Guards— Mihail 
Koltovsky. 

What  can  I  add  ?  I  remained  alive,  and 
went  on  living  in  Mr.  Ratsch's  house.  He 
hated  me  as  before — more  than  before — he  had 
unmasked  his  black  soul  too  much  before  me, 
he  could  not  pardon  me  that.  But  that  was  of 
no  consequence  to  me.  I  became,  as  it  were, 
without  feeling ;  my  own  fate  no  longer  inter- 
ested me.  To  think  of  him,  to  think  of  him ! 
I  had  no  interest,  no  joy,  but  that.  My  poor 
Michel  died  with  my  name  on  his  lips.  ...  I 
was  told  so  by  a  servant,  devoted  to  him,  who 
had  been  with  him  when  he  came  into  the 
country.  The  same  year  my  stepfather  married 
Eleonora  Karpovna.  Semyon  Matveitch  died 
shortly  after.  In  his  will  he  secured  to  me  and 
increased  the  pension  he  had  allowed  me.  .  .  . 
In  the  event  of  my  death,  it  was  to  pass  to 
Mr.  Ratsch.  .  .  . 

Two — three — years  passed  .  .  .  six  years, 
seven  years.  .  .  .  Life  has  been  passing,  ebb- 
ing away  .  .  .  while  I  merely  watched  how  it 
was  ebbing.  As  in  childhood,  on  some  river's 
edge  one  makes  a  little  pond  and  dams  it  up, 
and  tries  in  all  sorts  of  ways  to  keep  the  water 
from  soaking  through,  from  breaking  in.  But 
at  last  the  water  breaks  in,  and  then  you 
abandon  all  your  vain  efforts,  and  you  are  glad 
133 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

instead  to  watch  all  that  you  had  guarded 
ebbing  away  to  tlie  last  drop.  .  .  . 

So  I  lived,  so  I  existed,  till  at  last  a  new, 
unhoped-for  ray  of  warmth  and  light  .  .  .' 

The  manuscript  broke  off  at  this  word  ;  the 
following  leaves  had  been  torn  off,  and  several 
lines  completing  the  sentence  had  been  crossed 
through  and  blotted  out. 


XVIII 

The  reading  of  this  manuscript  so  upset  me, 
the  impression  made  by  Susanna's  visit  was  so 
great,  that  I  could  not  sleep  all  night,  and  early 
in  the  morning  I  sent  an  express  messenger  to 
Fustov  with  a  letter,  in  which  I  besought  him 
to  come  to  Moscow  as  soon  as  possible,  as  his 
absence  might  have  the  most  terrible  results. 
I  mentioned  also  my  interview  with  Susanna, 
and  the  manuscript  she  had  left  in  my  hands. 
After  having  sent  off  the  letter,  I  did  not  go 
out  of  the  house  all  day,  and  pondered  all 
the  time  on  what  might  be  happening  at  the 
Ratsches'.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  go 
there  myself.  I  could  not  help  noticing  though 
that  my  aunt  was  in  a  continual  fidget ;  she 
ordered  pastilles  to  be  burnt  every  minute, 
and  dealt  the  game  of  patience,  known  as  '  the 
134 


AN    UNHAITY    GIRL 

traveller,'  which  is  noted  as  a  game  in  which 
one  can  never  succeed.  The  visit  of  an  un- 
known lady,  and  at  such  a  late  hour,  had  not 
been  kept  secret  from  her  :  her  imagination  at 
once  pictured  a  yawning  abyss  on  the  edge  of 
which  I  was  standing,  and  she  was  continually 
sighing  and  moaning  and  murmuring  French 
sentences,  quoted  from  a  little  manuscript  book 
entitled  Extraits  de  Lecture.  In  the  evening 
I  found  on  the  little  table  at  my  bedside 
the  treatise  of  De  Girando,  laid  open  at  the 
chapter :  On  the  evil  influence  of  the  passions. 
This  book  had  been  put  in  my  room,  at  my 
aunt's  instigation  of  course,  by  the  elder  of  her 
companions,  who  was  called  in  the  household 
Amishka,  from  her  resemblance  to  a  little 
poodle  of  that  name,  and  was  a  very  senti- 
mental, not  to  say  romantic,  though  elderly, 
maiden  lady.  All  the  following  day  was  spent 
in  anxious  expectation  of  Fustov's  coming,  of 
a  letter  from  him,  of  news  from  the  Ratsches' 
house  .  .  .  though  on  what  ground  could  they 
have  sent  to  me  ?  Susanna  would  be  more 
likely  to  expect  me  to  visit  her.  .  .  .  But  I 
positively  could  not  pluck  up  courage  to  see 
her  without  first  talking  to  Fustov.  I  recalled 
every  expression  in  my  letter  to  him.  ...  I 
thought  it  was  strong  enough ;  at  last,  late  in 
the  evening,  he  appeared. 


135 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 


XIX 


He  came  into  my  room  with  his  habitual, 
rapid,  but  deliberate  step.  His  face  struck  me 
as  pale,  and  though  it  showed  traces  of  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey,  there  was  an  expression 
of  astonishment,  curiosity,  and  dissatisfaction — 
emotions  of  which  he  had  little  experience  as 
a  rule.  I  rushed  up  to  him,  embraced  him, 
warmly  thanked  him  for  obeying  me,  and 
after  briefly  describing  my  conversation  with 
Susanna,  handed  him  the  manuscript.  He 
went  off  to  the  window,  to  the  very  window  in 
which  Susanna  had  sat  two  days  before,  and 
without  a  word  to  me,  he  fell  to  reading  it.  I 
at  once  retired  to  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
room,  and  for  appearance'  sake  took  up  a  book  ; 
but  I  must  own  I  was  stealthily  looking  over 
the  edge  of  the  cover  all  the  while  at  Fustov. 
At  first  he  read  rather  calmly,  and  kept  pulling 
with  his  left  hand  at  the  down  on  his  lip ;  then 
he  let  his  hand  drop,  bent  forward  and  did  not 
stir  again.  His  eyes  seemed  to  fly  along  the 
lines  and  his  mouth  slightly  opened.  At  last 
he  finished  the  manuscript,  turned  it  over, 
looked  round,  thought  a  little,  and  began  read- 
ing it  all  through  a  second  time  from  beginning 
to  end.  Then  he  got  up,  put  the  manuscript 
in  his  pocket  and  moved  towards  the  door; 
136 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

but  he  turned  round  and  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

'Well,  what  do  you  think?'  I  began,  not 
waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

'  I  have  acted  wrongly  towards  her,'  Fustov 
declared  thickly.  '  I  have  behaved  .  .  .  rashly, 
unpardonably,  cruelly.  I  believed  that  .  .  . 
Viktor ' 

'  What  I '  I  cried  ;  '  that  Viktor  whom  you 
despise  so!     But  what  could  he  say  to  you?' 

Fustov  crossed  his  arms  and  stood  obliquely 
to  me.     He  was  ashamed,  I  saw  that. 

'  Do  you  remember,'  he  said  with  some  effort, 
'that  .  .  .  Viktor  alluded  to  .  .  .  a  pension. 
That  unfortunate  word  stuck  in  my  head.  It's 
the  cause  of  everything.  I  began  questioning 
him.  .  .  .  Well,  and  he ' 

'What  did  he  say?' 

•  He  told  me  that  the  old  man  .  .  what 's 
his  name  ?  .  .  .  Koltovsky,  had  allowed 
Susanna  that  pension  because  ...  on  account 
of  .  .  .  well,  in  fact,  by  way  of  damages.' 

I  flung  up  my  hands. 
'And  you  believed  him?* 
Fustov  nodded. 

*  Yes  1  I  believed  him.  .  .  .  He  said,  too, 
that  with  the  young  one  ...  In  fact,  my 
behaviour  is  unjustifiable.' 

'  And  you  went  away  so  as  to  break  every- 
thing off?' 

137 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'  Yes  ;  that 's  the  best  way  ...  in  such  cases. 
I  acted  savagely,  savagely,'  he  repeated. 

We  were  both  silent.  Each  of  us  felt  that 
the  other  was  ashamed ;  but  it  was  easier  for 
me ;  I  was  not  ashamed  of  myself. 


XX 

'  I  WOULD  break  every  bone  in  that  Viktor's 
body  now,'  pursued  Fustov,  clenching  his 
teeth,  '  if  I  didn't  recognise  that  I  'm  in  fault. 
I  see  now  what  the  whole  trick  was  contrived 
for,  with  Susanna's  marriage  they  would  lose 
the  pension.  .  .  .  Wretches  I ' 

I  took  his  hand. 

*  Alexander,'  I  asked  him,  '  have  you  been 
to  her  ? ' 

'No;  I  came  straight  to  you  on  arriving. 
I  '11  go  to-morrow  .  .  .  early  to-morrow. 
Things  can't  be  left  so.     On  no  account ! ' 

'But  you  .     .  love  her,  Alexander  ?' 

Fustov  seemed  offended. 

'  Of  course  I  love  her.  I  am  very  much 
attached  to  her.' 

'  She  's  a  splendid,  true-hearted  girl  I '  I 
cried. 

Fustov  stamped  impatiently. 

'Well,  what  notion  have  you  got  in  your 
138 


AN    UNHAPPV   GIRL 

head  ?  I  was  prcparetl  to  marry  her — she 's 
been  baptized — I  'm  ready  to  marry  her  even 
now,  I'd  been  thinking  of  it,  though  she's 
older  than  I  am.' 

At  that  instant  I  suddenly  fancied  that  a 
pale  woman's  figure  was  seated  in  the  window, 
leaning  on  her  arms.  The  lights  had  burnt 
down  ;  it  was  dark  in  the  room.  I  shivered, 
looked  more  intently,  and  saw  nothing,  of 
course,  in  the  window  seat ;  but  a  strange 
feeling,  a  mixture  of  horror,  anguish  and  pity, 
came  over  me. 

'  Alexander ! '  I  began  with  sudden  inten- 
sity, *  I  beg  you,  I  implore  you,  go  at  once  to 
the  Ratsches',  don't  put  it  off  till  to-morrow ! 
An  inner  voice  tells  me  that  you  really  ought 
to  see  Susanna  to-day  ! ' 

Fustov  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'What  are  you  talking  about,  really!  It's 
eleven  o'clock  now,  most  likely  they  're  all 
in  bed.' 

*  No  matter,  .  .  .  Do  go,  for  goodness'  sake  ! 
I  have  a  presentiment.  .  .  .  Please  do  as  I 
say  !     Go  at  once,  take  a  sledge.  .  .  .' 

*  Come,  what  nonsense  ! '  Fustov  responded 
coolly;  'how  could  I  go  now?  To-morrow 
morning  I  will  be  there,  and  everything  will  be 
cleared  up.' 

*  But,  Alexander,  remember,  she  said  that 
she  was  dying,  that  you  would  not  find  her.  .  . 

139 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

And  if  you  had  seen  her  face !  Only  think, 
imagine,  to  make  up  her  mind  to  come  to 
me  .  .  .  what  it  must  have  cost  her.  .  .  .' 

'She's  a  httle  high-flown,' observed  Fustov, 
who  had  apparently  regained  his  self-posses- 
sion completely.  '  All  girls  are  like  that  .  .  . 
at  first.  I  repeat,  everything  will  be  all  right 
to-morrow.  Meanwhile,  good-bye.  I  'm  tired, 
and  you  're  sleepy  too.' 

He  took  his  cap,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

'  But  you  promise  to  come  here  at  once,  and 
tell  me  all  about  it?'     I  called  after  him. 

'  I  promise.  .  .  .  Good-bye ! ' 

I  went  to  bed,  but  in  my  heart  I  was  uneasy, 
and  I  felt  vexed  with  my  friend.  I  fell  asleep 
late  and  dreamed  that  I  was  wandering  with 
Susanna  along  underground,  damp  passages  of 
some  sort,  and  crawling  along  narrow,  steep 
staircases,  and  continually  going  deeper  and 
deeper  down,  though  we  were  trying  to  get 
higher  up  out  into  the  air.  Some  one  was  all 
the  while  incessantly  calling  us  in  monotonous, 
plaintive  tones. 


XXI 

Some   one's   hand   lay   on    my    shoulder   and 

pushed    it   several   times.    ...    I    opened   my 

140 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

eyes  and  in  the  faint  light  of  the  soh'tary 
candle,  I  saw  Fustov  standing  before  me.  He 
frightened  me.  He  was  staggering ;  his  face 
was  yellow,  almost  the  same  colour  as  his 
hair;  his  lips  seemed  hanging  down,  his  muddy 
eyes  were  staring  senselessly  away.  What 
had  become  of  his  invariably  amiable,  sympa- 
thetic expression  ?  I  had  a  cousin  who  from 
epilepsy  was  sinking  into  idiocy.  .  .  ,  Fustov 
looked  like  him  at  that  moment. 

I  sat  up  hurriedly. 

'  What  is  it?    What  is  the  matter?  Heavens'' 

He  made  no  answer. 

'  Why,  what  has  happened  ?     Fustov  !     Do 
speak  !     Susanna  ?  .  .  .' 

Fustov  gave  a  slight  start. 

'  She  .  .  .'  he  began  in  a  hoarse  voice,  and 
broke  off. 

'  What  of  her  ?     Have  you  seen  her  ? ' 

He  stared  at  me. 

'  She 's  no  more.' 

'No  more?' 

'  No.     She  is  dead.' 

I  jumped  out  of  bed. 

'Dead?     Susanna?     Dead?' 

Fustov  turned  his  eyes  away  again. 

'Yes  ;  she  is  dead  ;  she  died  at  midnight.' 

'He's  raving!'  crossed  my  mind. 

'  At  midnight !  And  what 's  the  time  now  ? ' 

*  It 's   eight   o'clock    in    the   morning    now 
141 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

They  sent  to  tell  me.     She  is  to  be  .buried 
to-morrow.' 

I  seized  him  by  the  hand, 

'  Alexander,  you  're  not  delirious  ?  Are  you 
in  your  senses  ? ' 

'  I  am  in  my  senses,'  he  answered.  '  Directly 
I  heard  it,  I  came  straight  to  you.' 

My  heart  turned  sick  and  numb,  as  always 
happens  on  realising  an  irrevocable  misfortune. 

'  My  God  !  my  God  !  Dead  ! '  I  repeated. 
'  How  is  it  possible  ?  So  suddenly  !  Or  perhaps 
she  took  her  own  life  ? ' 

'  I  don 't  know,'  said  Fustov,  '  I  know 
nothing.  They  told  me  she  died  at  mid- 
night.    And  to-morrow  she  will  be  buried.' 

*  At  midnight ! '  I  thought.  .  .  .  '  Then  she 
was  still  alive  yesterday  when  I  fancied  I  saw 
her  in  the  window,  when  I  entreated  him  to 
hasten  to  her.  .  .  .' 

'  She  was  still  alive  yesterday,  when  you 
wanted  to  send  me  to  Ivan  Demianitch's,'  said 
Fustov,  as  though  guessing  my  thought. 

'  How  little  he  knew  her  ! '  I  thought  again. 
'  How  little  we  both  knew  her !  "  High-flown," 
said  he,  "all  girls  are  like  that."  .  .  .  And  at 
that  very  minute,  perhaps,  she  was  putting  to 
her  lips  .  .  .  Can  one  love  any  one  and  be  so 
grossly  mistaken  in  them  ? '- 

Fustov  stood  stockstill  before  my  bed,  his 
hands  hanging,  like  a  guilty  man. 
142 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 


XXII 


I  DRESSED  hurriedly. 

'  What  do  you  mean  to  do  now,  Alexander  ? ' 
I  asked. 

He  gazed  at  mc  in  bewilderment,  as  though 
marvelling  at  the  absurdity  of  my  question. 
And  indeed  what  was  there  to  do? 

'  You  simply  must  go  to  them,  though,'  I 
began.  '  You  're  bound  to  ascertain  how  it 
happened  ;  there  is,  possibly,  a  crime  concealed. 
One  may  expect  anything  of  those  people.  .  ,  . 
It  is  all  to  be  thoroughly  investigated.  Re- 
member the  statement  in  her  manuscript,  the 
pension  was  to  cease  on  her  marriage,  but  in 
event  of  her  death  it  was  to  pass  to  Ratsch. 
In  any  case,  one  must  render  her  the  last  duty, 
pay  homage  to  her  remains  1 ' 

I  talked  to  Fustov  like  a  preceptor,  like  an 
elder  brother.  In  the  midst  of  all  that  horror, 
grief,  bewilderment,  a  sort  of  unconscious 
feeling  of  superiority  over  Fustov  had  suddenly 
come  to  the  surface  in  me.  .  .  .  Whether  from 
seeing  him  crushed  by  the  consciousness  of  his 
fault,  distracted,  shattered,  whether  that  a 
misfortune  befalling  a  man  almost  always 
humiliates  him,  lowers  him  in  the  opinion  of 
others,  'you  can't  be  much,'  is  felt,  'if  you 
hadn't  the  wit  to  come  off  better  than  that ! ' 
M3 


AN   UNHAPPY  GIRL 

God  knows !  Any  way,  Fustov  seemed  to  me 
almost  like  a  child,  and  I  felt  pity  for  him,  and 
saw  the  necessity  of  severity.  I  held  out  a 
helping  hand  to  him,  stooping  down  to  him 
from  above.  Only  a  woman's  sympathy  is 
free  from  condescension. 

But  Fustov  continued  to  gaze  with  wild 
and  stupid  eyes  at  me — my  authoritative  tone 
obviously  had  no  effect  on  him,  and  to  my 
second  question,  '  You  're  going  to  them,  I 
suppose?'  he  replied — 

'  No,  I  'm  not  going.' 

'  What  do  you  mean,  really  ?  Don't  you  want 
to  ascertain  for  yourself,  to  investigate,  how, 
and  what  ?  Perhaps,  she  has  left  a  letter  .  .  . 
a  document  of  some  sort.  .  .  .' 

Fustov  shook  his  head. 

'  I  can't  go  there,'  he  said.  '  That 's  what  1 
came  to  you  for,  to  ask  you  to  go  .  .  .  for 
me  ...  I  can't  ...  I  can't.  .  .  .' 

Fustov  suddenly  sat  down  to  the  table, 
hid  his  face  in  both  hands,  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

•  Alas,  alas ! '  he  kept  repeating  through  his 
tears ;  '  alas,  poor  girl  .  .  .  poor  girl  ...  I 
loved  ...  I  loved  her  .  .  .  alas  ! ' 

I  stood  near  him,  and  I  am  bound  to  confess, 

not  the  slightest  sympathy  was  excited  in  me 

by  those  incontestably  sincere  sobs.     I  simply 

marvelled  that  Fustov  could  cry  like  that,  and 

144 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

it  seemed  to  me  that  noiv  I  knew  what  a  small 
person  he  was,  and  that  I  should,  in  his  place, 
have  acted  quite  differently.  What's  one  to 
make  of  it?  If  Fustov  had  remained  quite 
unmoved,  I  should  perhaps  have  hated  him, 
have  conceived  an  aversion  for  him,  but  he 
would  not  have  sunk  in  my  esteem.  .  .  .  He 
would  have  kept  his  prestige.  Don  Juan 
would  have  remained  Don  Juan  !  Very  late  in 
life,  and  only  after  many  experiences,  does  a 
man  learn,  at  the  sight  of  a  fellow-creature's  real 
failing  or  weakness,  to  sympathise  with  him, 
and  help  him  without  a  secret  self-congratula« 
tion  at  his  own  virtue  and  strength,  but  on  the 
contrary,  with  every  humility  and  comprehen- 
sion of  the  naturalness,  almost  the  inevitable- 
ness,  of  sin. 


XXIII 

I  WAS  very  bold  and  resolute  in  sending 
Fustov  to  the  Ratsches' ;  but  when  I  set  out 
there  myself  at  twelve  o'clock  (nothing  would 
induce  Fustov  to  go  with  me,  he  only  begged 
me  to  give  him  an  exact  account  of  every- 
thing), when  round  the  corner  of  the  street 
their  house  glared  at  me  in  the  distance  with 
a  yellowish  blur  from  the  coffin  candles  at  one 
of  the  windows,  an  indescribable  panic  made 
K  145 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

me  hold  my  breath,  and  I  would  gladly  have 
turned  back.  ...  I  mastered  myself,  however, 
and  went  into  the  passage.  It  smelt  of  incense 
and  wax ;  the  pink  cover  of  the  coffin,  edged 
with  silver  lace,  stood  in  a  corner,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  In  one  of  the  adjoining 
rooms,  the  dining-room,  the  monotonous 
muttering  of  the  deacon  droned  like  the  buzz- 
ing of  a  bee.  From  the  drawing-room  peeped 
out  the  sleepy  face  of  a  servant  girl,  who  mur- 
mured in  a  subdued  voice, '  Come  to  do  homage 
to  the  dead?'  She  indicated  the  door  of  the 
dining-room.  I  went  in.  The  coffin  stood 
with  the  head  towards  the  door;  the  black  hair 
of  Susanna  under  the  white  wreath,  above  the 
raised  lace  of  the  pillow,  first  caught  my  eyes. 
I  went  up  sidewards,  crossed  myself,  bowed 
down  to  the  ground,  glanced  .  .  .  Merciful 
God  !  what  a  face  of  agony  !  Unhappy  girl ! 
even  death  had  no  pity  on  her,  had  denied 
her — beauty,  that  would  be  little — even  that 
peace,  that  tender  and  impressive  peace  which 
is  often  seen  on  the  faces  of  the  newly  dead. 
The  little,  dark,  almost  brown,  face  of  Susanna 
recalled  the  visages  on  old,  old  holy  pictures. 
And  the  expression  on  that  face!  It  looked  as 
though  she  were  on  the  point  of  shrieking — a 
shriek  of  despair — and  had  died  so,  uttering 
no  sound  .  .  .  even  the  line  between  the  brows 
was  not  smoothed  out,  and  the  fingers  on  the 
146 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

hands  were  bent  back  and  clenched.  I  turned 
away  my  eyes  involuntarily  ;  but,  after -a  brief 
interval,  I  forced  myself  to  look,  to  look  long 
and  attentively  at  her.  Pity  filled  my  soul, 
and  not  pity  alone.  '  That  girl  died  by 
violence,'  I  decided  inwardly  ;  '  that 's  beyond 
doubt.'  While  I  was  standing  looking  at  the 
dead  girl,  the  deacon,  who  on  my  entrance  had 
raised  his  voice  and  uttered  a  few  disconnected 
sounds,  relapsed  into  droning  again,  and  yawned 
twice.  I  bowed  to  the  ground  a  second  time, 
and  went  out  into  the  passage. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room  Mr. 
Ratsch  was  already  on  the  look-out  for  me, 
dressed  in  a  gay-coloured  dressing-gown. 
Beckoning  to  me  with  his  hand,  he  led  me 
to  his  own  room — I  had  almost  said,  to  his 
lair.  The  room,  dark  and  close,  soaked 
through  and  through  with  the  sour  smell  of 
stale  tobacco,  suggested  a  comparison  with 
the  lair  of  a  wolf  or  a  fox. 


XXIV 

'Rupture!  rupture  of  the  external  .  .  .  of  the 
external  covering.  .  .  .  You  understand  .  .  . 
the  envelopes  of  the  heart ! '  said  Mr.  Ratsch, 
directly  the  door  closed.  '  Such  a  misfortune! 
Only  yesterday  evening  there  was  nothing  to 
147 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

notice,  and  all  of  a  sudden,  all  in  a  minute, 
all  was  over  !  It 's  a  true  saying,  "  heute  roth, 
niorgen  todt !  "  It 's  true  ;  it 's  what  was  to  be 
expected.  I  always  expected  it.  At  Tambov 
the  regimental  doctor,  Galimbovsky,  Vikenty 
Kasimirovitch. . . .  you  've  probably  heard  of  him 
...  a  first-rate  medical  man,  a  specialist ' 

'It's  the  first  time  I've  heard  the  name,'  I 
observed. 

*  Well,  no  matter ;  any  way  he  was  always,' 
pursued  Mr.  Ratsch,  at  first  in  a  low  voice,  and 
then  louder  and  louder,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
with  a  perceptible  German  accent,  *  he  was 
always  warning  me:  "Ay,  Ivan  Demianitch ! 
ay  !  my  dear  boy,  you  must  be  careful !  Your 
stepdaughter  has  an  organic  defect  in  the  heart 
— hypertrophia  cordialis!  The  least  thing 
and  there  '11  be  trouble !  She  must  avoid  all 
exciting  emotions  above  all.  .  .  .  You  must 
appeal  to  her  reason."  .  .  .  But,  upon  my  word, 
with  a  young  lady  .  .  .  can  one  appeal  to 
reason?     Ha  .  .  .  ha  .  .  .  ha  .  .  .' 

Mr.  Ratsch  was,  through  long  habit,  on  the 
point  of  laughing,  but  he  recollected  himself  in 
time,  and  changed  the  incipient  guffaw  into  a 
cough. 

And  this  was  what  Mr.  Ratsch  said  1  After 
all  that  I  had  found  out  about  him  !  .  .  .  I 
thought  it  my  duty,  however,  to  ask  him  whether 
a  doctor  was  called  in. 

148 


AN    UNHAPPY   C.IRL 

Mr.  Ratsch  positively  bounced  into  the  air. 

'  To  be  sure  there  was.  .  .  .  Two  were  sum- 
moned, but  it  was  already  over — abcjemacht ! 
And  only  fancy,  both,  as  though  they  were 
agreeing'  (Mr.  Ratsch  probably  meant,  as 
though  they  had  agreed),  '  rupture !  rupture  of 
the  heart  I  That 's  what,  with  one  voice,  they 
cried  out.  They  proposed  a  post-mortem  ;  but 
I  .  .  .  you  understand,  did  not  consent  to  that.' 

'And  the  funeral's  to-morrow?'  I  queried. 

'  Yes,  yes,  to-morrow,  to-morrow  we  bury  our 
dear  one  !  The  procession  will  leave  the  house 
precisely  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 
From  here  to  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  on 
Hen's  Legs  .  .  .  what  strange  names  your 
Russian  churches  do  have,  you  know !  Then 
to  the  last  resting-place  in  mother  earth. 
You  will  come!  We  have  not  been  long 
acquainted,  but  I  make  bold  to  say,  the 
amiability  of  your  character  and  the  elevation 
of  your  sentiments !  .  .  .' 

I  made  haste  to  nod  my  head. 

*  Yes,  yes,  yes,'  sighed  Mr.  Ratsch.  '  It  .  .  . 
it  really  has  been,  as  they  say,  a  thunderbolt 
from  a  clear  sky !  Ein  Blitz  aus  heiterem 
Himmel ! ' 

'  And  Susanna  Ivanovna  said  nothing  before 
her  death,  left  nothing?' 

'  Nothing,  positively !  Not  a  scrap  of  any- 
thing !  Not  a  bit  of  paper !  Only  fancy, 
149 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

when  they  called  me  to  her,  when  they  waked 
me  up — she  was  stiff  already !  Very  distress- 
ing it  was  for  me  ;  she  has  grieved  us  all 
terribly !  Alexander  Daviditch  will  be  sorry 
too,  I  dare  say,  when  he  knows.  .  .  .  They  say 
he  is  not  in  Moscow.' 

'  He  did  leave  town  for  a  few  days  .  .  .*  I 
began. 

*  Viktor  Ivanovitch  is  complaining  they're  so 
long  getting  his  sledge  harnessed,'  interrupted 
a  servant  girl  coming  in — the  same  girl  I  had 
seen  in  the  passage.  Her  face,  still  looking 
half-awake,  struck  me  this  time  by  the  expres- 
sion of  coarse  insolence  to  be  seen  in  servants 
when  they  know  that  their  masters  are  in  their 
power,  and  that  they  do  not  dare  to  find  fault 
or  be  exacting  with  them. 

*  Directly,  directly,'  Ivan  Demianitch  re- 
sponded nervously.  '  Eleonora  Karpovna  ! 
Leonora !  Lenchen  !  come  here  ! ' 

There  was  a  sound  of  something  ponderous 
moving  the  other  side  of  the  door,  and  at  the 
same  instant  I  heard  Viktor's  imperious  call : 
'  Why  on  earth  don't  they  put  the  horses  in  ? 
You  don't  catch  me  trudging  off  to  the  police 
on  foot ! ' 

'  Directly,  directly,'  Ivan  Demianitch  faltered 
again.     '  Eleonora  Karpovna,  come  here  ! ' 

'  But,  Ivan   Demianitch,'   I  heard  her  voice, 
•  ich  habe  keine  Toilette  gemacht ! ' 
150 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

'  Macht  nichts.     Komm  herein  !  * 

Eleonora  Karpovna  came  in,  holding  a 
kerchief  over  her  neck  with  two  fingers.  She 
had  on  a  morning  wrapper,  not  buttoned  up, 
and  had  not  yet  done  her  hair.  Ivan 
Demianitch  flew  up  to  her. 

'  You  hear,  Viktor 's  calh'ng  for  the  horses,' 
he  said,  hurriedly  pointing  his  finger  first  to  the 
door,  then  to  the  window.  '  Please,  do  see  to 
it,  as  quick  as  possible  !     Der  Kerl  schreit  so  !  * 

•  Der  Viktor  schreit  immer,  Ivan  Demianitch, 
Sie  wissen  wohl,'  responded  Eleonora  Kar- 
povna, '  and  I  have  spoken  to  the  coachman 
myself,  but  he 's  taken  it  into  his  head  to  give 
the  horses  oats.  Fancy,  what  a  calamity  to 
happen  so  suddenly,'  she  added,  turning  to 
me ;  '  who  could  have  expected  such  a  thing 
of  Susanna  Ivanovna  ? ' 

'  I  was  always  expecting  it,  always ! '  cried 
Ratsch,  and  threw  up  his  arms,  his  dressing- 
gown  flying  up  in  front  as  he  did  so,  and  dis- 
playing most  repulsive  unmentionables  of 
chamois  leather,  with  buckles  on  the  belt. 
'  Rupture  of  the  heart !  rupture  of  the  external 
membrane  !     Hypertrophy  ! ' 

*  To  be  sure,'  Eleonora  Karpovna  repeated 
after  him,  '  hyper  .  .  .  Well,  so  it  is.  Only  it's 
a  terrible,  terrible  grief  to  me,  I  say  again  .  .  .' 
And  her  coarse-featured  face  worked  a  little, 
her  eyebrows  rose  into  the  shape  of  triangles, 

151 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

and  a  tiny  tear  rolled  over  her  round  cheek, 
that  looked  varnished  like  a  doll's.  ...  '  I  'm 
very  sorry  that  such  a  young  person  who  ought 
to  have  lived  and  enjoyed  everything  .  .  . 
everything  .  .  .  And  to  fall  into  despair  so 
suddenly !' 

'  Na !  gut,  gut  .  .  .  geh,  alte  ! '  Mr.  Ratsch  cut 
her  short. 

'  Geh'  schon,  geh'  schon,'  muttered  Eleonora 
Karpovna,  and  she  went  away,  still  holding 
the  kerchief  with  her  fingers,  and  shedding 
tears. 

And  I  followed  her.  In  the  passage  stood 
Viktor  in  a  student's  coat  with  a  beaver  collar 
and  a  cap  stuck  jauntily  on  one  side.  He 
barely  glanced  at  me  over  his  shoulder,  shook 
his  collar  up,  and  did  not  nod  to  me,  for  which 
I  mentally  thanked  him. 

I  went  back  to  Fustov. 


XXV 

I  FOUND  my  friend  sitting  in  a  corner  of  his 
room  with  downcast  head  and  arms  folded 
across  his  breast.  He  had  sunk  into  a  state  of 
numbness,  and  he  gazed  around  him  with  the 
slow,  bewildered  look  of  a  man  who  has  slept 
very  heavily  and  has  only  just  been  waked.  I 
152 


AN    UNTTAPPY   GIRL 

told  him  all  about  my  visit  to  Ratsch's,  re- 
peated the  veteran's  remarks  and  those  of  his 
wife,  described  the  impression  they  had  made 
on  me  and  informed  him  of  my  conviction  that 
the  unhappy  girl  had  taken  her  own  life.  .  .  . 
Fustov  listened  to  me  with  no  change  of  ex- 
pression, and  looked  about  him  with  the  same 
bewildered  air. 

'  Did  you  see  her  ? '  he  asked  me  at  last. 

•  Yes.' 

'In  the  coffin?' 

Fustov  seemed  to  doubt  whether  Susanna 
were  really  dead. 

'  In  the  coffin.' 

Fustov's  face  twitched  and  he  dropped  his 
eyes  and  softly  rubbed  his  hands. 

'  Are  you  cold  ? '  I  asked  him. 

'  Yes,  old  man,  I  'm  cold,'  he  answered 
hesitatingly,  and  he  shook  his  head  stupidly. 

I  began  to  explain  my  reasons  for  thinking 
that  Susanna  had  poisoned  herself  or  perhaps 
had  been  poisoned,  and  that  the  matter  could 
not  be  left  so.  .  .  . 

Fustov  stared  at  me. 

'Why,  what  is  there  to  be  done?' he  said, 
slowly  opening  his  eyes  wide  and  slowly  closing 
them.  '  Why,  it  '11  be  worse  .  .  .  if  it 's  known 
about.  They  won't  bury  her.  We  must  let 
things  .  .  .  alone.' 

This  idea,  simple  as  it  was,  had  never  entered 
153 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

my  head.     My  friend's  practical  sense  had  not 
deserted  him. 

'When  is  .  .  .  her  funeral  ? '  he  went  on. 

*  To-morrow.' 

*  Are  you  going  ?  ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  To  the  house  or  straight  to  the  church?* 

'  To  the  house  and  to  the  church  too ;  and 
from  there  to  the  cemetery.' 

*  But  I  shan't  go  ...  I  can't,  I  can't ! ' 
whispered  Fustov  and  began  crying.  It  was 
at  these  same  words  that  he  had  broken  into 
sobs  in  the  morning.  '^  have  noticed  that  it  is 
often  so  with  weeping  ;  as  though  to  certain 
words,  for  the  most  of  no  great  meaning, 
— but  just  to  these  words  and  to  no  others — it 
is  given  to  open  the  fount  of  tears  in  a  man,  to 
break  him  down,  and  to  excite  in  him  the  feel- 
ing of  pity  for  others  and  himself  .  ^.  I  re- 
member a  peasant  woman  was  once  describing 
before  me  the  sudden  death  of  her  daughter, 
and  she  fairly  dissolved  and  could  not  go  on 
with  her  tale  as  soon  as  she  uttered  the  phrase, 
'  I  said  to  her,  Fekla.  And  she  says,  "Mother, 
where  have  you  put  the  salt  .  .  .  the  salt  .  .  , 
sa-alt  ?  "  '     The  word  '  salt '  overpowered  her. 

But  again,  as  in  the  morning,  I  was  but  little 
moved  by  Fustov's  tears.  I  could  not  conceive 
how  it  was  he  did  not  ask  me  if  Susanna  had 
not  left  something  for  him.     Altogether  their 

i';4 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

love  for  one  another  was  a  riddle  to  me ;  and  a 
riddle  it  remained  to  me. 

After  weeping  for  ten  minutes  Fustov  got 
up,  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall,  and  remained  motionless.  I  waited  a 
little,  but  seeing  that  he  did  not  stir,  and  made 
no  answer  to  my  questions,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  leave  him.  I  am  perhaps  doing  him  injustice, 
but  I  almost  believe  he  was  asleep.  Though 
indeed  that  would  be  no  proof  that  he  did  not 
feel  sorrow  .  .  .  only  his  nature  was  so  con- 
stituted as  to  be  unable  to  support  painful 
emotions  for  long  .  .  .  His  nature  was  too 
awfully  well-balanced  ! 


XXVI 

The  next  day  exactly  at  eleven  o'clock  I  was 
at  the  place.  Fine  hail  was  falling  from  the 
low-hanging  sky,  there  was  a  slight  frost,  a 
thaw  was  close  at  hand,  but  there  were  cutting, 
disagreeable  gusts  of  wind  flitting  across  in  the 
air.  ...  It  was  the  most  thoroughly  Lenten, 
cold-catching  weather.  I  found  Mr.  Ratsch  on 
the  steps  of  his  house.  In  a  black  frock-coat 
adorned  with  crape,  with  no  hat  on  his  head, 
he  fussed  about,  waved  his  arms,  smote  himself 
on  the  thighs,  shouted  up  to  the  house,  and 
then  down  into  the  street,  in  the  direction  of 
155 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

the  funeral  car  with  a  white  catafalque,  already 
standing  there  with  two  hired  carriages.  Near 
it  four  garrison  soldiers,  with  mourning  capes 
over  their  old  coats,  and  mourning  hats  pulled 
over  their  scrcwed-up  eyes,  were  pensively 
scratching  in  the  crumbh'ng  snow  with  the  long 
stems  of  their  unlighted  torches.  The  grey 
shock  of  hair  positively  stood  up  straight  above 
the  red  face  of  Mr.  Ratsch,  and  his  voice,  that 
brazen  voice,  was  cracking  from  the  strain  he 
was  putting  on  it.  'Where  are  the  pine  branches? 
pine  branches!  this  way!  the  branches  of  pine!' 
he  yelled.  '  They  '11  be  bearing  out  the  coffin 
directly !  The  pine !  Hand  over  those  pine 
branches !  Look  alive ! '  he  cried  once  more, 
and  dashed  into  the  house.  It  appeared  that 
in  spite  of  my  punctuality,  I  was  late  :  Mr. 
Ratsch  had  thought  fit  to  hurry  things  forward. 
The  service  in  the  house  was  already  over; 
the  priests — of  whom  one  wore  a  calotte,  and 
the  other,  rather  younger,  had  most  carefully 
combed  and  oiled  his  hair — appeared  with  all 
their  retinue  on  the  steps.  The  coffin  too 
appeared  soon  after,  carried  by  a  coachman, 
two  door-keepers,  and  a  water-carrier.  Mr. 
Ratsch  walked  behind,  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  on  the  coffin  lid,  continually  repeating, 
'  Easy,  easy  ! '  Behind  him  waddled  Elconora 
Karpovna  in  a  black  dress,  also  adorned  with 
crape,  surrounded  by  her  whole  family  ;  after 
156 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

all  of  them,  Viktor  stepped  out  in  a  new 
uniform  with  a  sword  with  crape  round  the 
handle.  The  coffin-bearers,  grumbling  and 
altercating  among  themselves,  laid  the  coffin 
on  the  hearse ;  the  garrison  soldiers  lighted 
their  torches,  which  at  once  began  crackling 
and  smoking  ;  a  stray  old  woman,  who  had 
joined  herself  on  to  the  party,  raised  a  wail ;  the 
deacons  began  to  chant,  the  fine  snow  suddenly 
fell  faster  and  whirled  round  like  'white  flies.' 
Mr.  Ratsch  bawled,  'In  God's  name!  start!' 
and  the  procession  started.  Besides  Mr. 
Ratsch's  family,  there  were  in  all  five  men 
accompanying  the  hearse :  a  retired  and  ex- 
tremely shabby  officer  of  roads  and  highways, 
with  a  faded  Stanislas  ribbon — not  improbably 
hired — on  his  neck;  the  police  superintendent's 
assistant,  a  diminutive  man  with  a  meek  face 
and  greedy  eyes  ;  a  little  old  man  in  a  fustian 
smock  ;  an  extremely  fat  fishmonger  in  a  trades- 
man's blue  jacket,  smelling  strongly  of  his  call- 
ing, and  I.  The  absence  of  the  female  sex  (for 
one  could  hardly  count  as  such  two  aunts  of 
Eleonora  Karpovna,  sisters  of  the  sausage- 
maker,  and  a  hunchback  old  maiden  lady  with 
blue  spectacles  on  her  blue  nose),  the  absence 
of  girl  friends  and  acqua*ntances  struck  me  at 
first ;  but  on  thinking  it  over  I  realised  that 
Susanna,  with  her  character,  her  education,  her 
memories,  could  not  have  made  friends  in  the 
157 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

circle  in  which  she  was  living.  In  the  church 
there  were  a  good  many  people  assembled,  more 
outsiders  than  acquaintances,  as  one  could  see 
by  the  expression  of  their  faces.  The  service 
did  not  last  long.  What  surprised  me  was  that 
Mr.  Ratsch  crossed  himself  with  great  fervour, 
quite  as  though  he  were  of  the  orthodox  faith, 
and  even  chimed  in  with  the  deacons  in  the  re- 
sponses, though  only  with  the  notes  not  with 
the  words.  When  at  last  it  came  to  taking 
leave  of  the  dead,  I  bowed  low,  but  did  not 
give  the  last  kiss.  Mr.  Ratsch,  on  the  contrary, 
went  through  this  terrible  ordeal  with  the 
utmost  composure,  and  with  a  deferential  in- 
clination of  his  person  invited  the  officer  of  the 
Stanislas  ribbon  to  the  coffin,  as  though  offer- 
ing him  entertainment,  and  picking  his  children 
up  under  the  arms  swung  them  up  in  turn  and 
held  them  up  to  the  body.  Eleonora  Karpovna, 
on  taking  farewell  of  Susanna,  suddenly  broke 
into  a  roar  that  filled  the  church  ;  but  she  was 
soon  soothed  and  continually  asked  in  an  ex- 
asperated whisper,  '  But  where 's  my  reticule  ? ' 
Viktor  held  himself  aloof,  and  seemed  to  be 
trying  by  his  whole  demeanour  to  convey  that 
he  was  out  of  sympathy  with  all  such  customs 
and  was  only  performing  a  social  duty.  The 
person  who  showed  the  most  sympathy  was 
the  little  old  man  in  the  smock,  who  had 
been,  fifteen  years  before,  a  land  surveyor  in  the 
158 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

Tambov  province,  and  had  not  seen  Ratsch 
since  then.  He  did  not  know  Susanna  at  all, 
but  had  drunk  a  couple  of  glasses  of  spirits  at 
the  sideboard  before  starting.  My  aunt  had 
also  come  to  the  church.  She  had  somehow  or 
other  found  out  that  the  deceased  woman  was 
the  very  lady  who  had  paid  me  a  visit,  and  had 
been  thrown  into  a  state  of  indescribable  agita- 
tion !  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  suspect 
me  of  any  sort  of  misconduct,  but  neither  could 
she  explain  such  a  strange  chain  of  circum- 
stances. .  .  .  Not  improbably  she  imagined 
that  Susanna  had  been  led  by  love  for  me  to 
commit  suicide,  and  attired  in  her  darkest 
garments,  with  an  aching  heart  and  tears,  she 
prayed  on  her  knees  for  the  peace  of  the  soul  of 
the  departed,  and  put  a  rouble  candle  before 
the  picture  of  the  Consolation  of  Sorrow.  .  .  . 
'  Amishka '  had  come  with  her  too,  and  she  too 
prayed,  but  was  for  the  most  part  gazing  at 
me,  horror-stricken.  .  .  .  That  elderly  spinster, 
alas  !  did  not  regard  me  with  indifference.  On 
leaving  the  church,  my  aunt  distributed  all  her 
money,  more  than  ten  roubles,  among  the 
poor. 

At  last  the  farewell  was  over.  They  began 
closing  the  coffin.  During  the  whole  service  I 
had  not  courage  to  look  straight  at  the  poor 
girl's  distorted  face ;  but  every  time  that  my 
eyes  passed  by  it — '  he  did  not  come,  he  did  not 
159 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

come,'  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  wanted  to  say. 
They  were  just  going  to  lower  the  lid  upon 
the  coffin.  I  could  not  restrain  myself:  I 
turned  a  rapid  glance  on  to  the  dead  woman. 
'  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  *  I  was  unconsciously 
asking.  ...  *  He  did  not  come  I '  I  fancied  for 
the  last  time.  .  .  .  The  hammer  was  knocking 
in  the  nails,  and  all  was  over. 


XXVII 

We  followed  the  hearse  towards  the  cemetery. 
We  were  forty  in  number,  of  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions, nothing  else  really  than  an  idle  crowd. 
The  wearisome  journey  lasted  more  than  an 
hour.  The  weather  became  worse  and  worse. 
Halfway  there  Viktor  got  into  a  carriage,  but  Mr. 
Ratsch  stepped  gallantly  on  through  the  sloppy 
snow ;  just  so  must  he  have  stepped  through 
the  snow  when,  after  the  fateful  interview  with 
Semyon  Matveitch,  he  led  home  with  him  in 
triumph  the  girl  whose  life  he  had  ruined  for 
ever.  The  'veteran's'  hair  and  eyebrows  were 
edged  with  snow  ;  he  kept  blowing  and  utter- 
ing exclamations,  or  manfully  drawing  deep 
breaths  and  puffing  out  his  round,  dark-red 
cheeks.  .  .  ,  One  really  might  have  thought 
he  was  laughing.  *  On  my  death  the  pension 
i6o 


AN    UNHAPPY  GIRL 

was  to  pass  to  Ivan  Demianitch' ;  these  words 
from  Susanna's  manuscript  recurred  again  to 
my  mind.  We  reached  the  cemetery  at  last ; 
we  moved  up  to  a  freshly  dug  grave.  The  last 
ceremony  was  quickly  performed ;  all  were 
chilled  through,  all  were  in  haste.  The  coffin 
slid  on  cords  into  the  yawning  hole ;  they 
began  to  throw  earth  on  it.  Mr.  Ratsch  here 
too  showed  the  energy  of  his  spirit,  so  rapidly, 
with  such  force  and  vigour,  did  he  fling  clods  of 
earth  on  to  the  coffin  lid,  throwing  himself  into 
an  heroic  pose,  with  one  leg  planted  firmly 
before  him  ...  he  could  not  have  shown  more 
energy  if  he  had  been  stoning  his  bitterest  foe. 
Viktor,  as  before,  held  himself  aloof;  he  kept 
muffling  himself  up  in  his  coat,  and  rubbing 
his  chin  in  the  fur  of  his  collar.  Mr.  Ratsch's 
other  children  eagerly  imitated  their  father. 
Flinging  sand  and  earth  was  a  source  of  great 
enjoyment  to  them,  for  which,  of  course,  they 
were  in  no  way  to  blame.  A  mound  began 
to  rise  up  where  the  hole  had  been ;  we  were 
on  the  point  of  separating,  when  Mr.  Ratsch, 
wheeling  round  to  the  left  in  soldierly  fashion, 
and  slapping  himself  on  the  thigh,  announced 
to  all  of  us  '  gentlemen  present,'  that  he  invited 
us,  and  also  the  *  reverend  clergy,'  to  a  '  funeral 
banquet,'  which  had  been  arranged  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  cemetery,  in  the  chief  saloon 
of  an  extremely  superior  restaurant,  'thanks 
L  i6i 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

to  the  kind  offices  of  our  honoured  friend 
Sigismund  Sigismundovitch.'  ...  At  these 
words  he  indicated  the  assistant  of  the  police 
superintendent,  and  added  that  for  all  his  grief 
and  his  Lutheran  faith,  he,  Ivan  Demianitch 
Ratsch,  as  a  genuine  Russian,  put  the  old 
Russian  usages  before  everything.  'My  spouse,' 
he  cried, 'with  the  ladies  that  have  accompanied 
her,  may  go  home,  while  we  gentlemen  com- 
memorate in  a  modest  repast  the  shade  of 
Thy  departed  servant ! '  Mr.  Ratsch's  proposal 
was  received  with  genuine  sympathy ;  *  the 
reverend  clergy'  exchanged  expressive  glances 
with  one  another,  while  the  officer  of  roads 
and  highways  slapped  Ivan  Demianitch  on 
the  shoulder,  and  called  him  a  patriot  and  the 
soul  of  the  company. 

We  set  off  all  together  to  the  restaurant.  In 
the  restaurant,  in  the  middle  of  a  long,  wide, 
and  quite  empty  room  on  the  first  storey,  stood 
two  tables  laid  for  dinner,  covered  with  bottles 
and  eatables,  and  surrounded  by  chairs.  The 
smell  of  whitewash,  mingled  with  the  odours 
of  spirits  and  salad  oil,  was  stifling  and  oppres- 
sive. The  police  superintendent's  assistant,  as 
the  organiser  of  the  banquet,  placed  the  clergy 
in  the  seats  of  honour,  near  which  the  Lenten 
dishes  were  crowded  together  conspicuously ; 
after  the  priests  the  other  guests  took  their 
seats ;  the  banquet  began.  I  would  not  have 
162 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

used  such  a  festive  word  as  banquet  by  choice, 
but  no  other  word  would  have  corresponded 
with  the  real  character  of  the  thing.  At  first 
the  proceedings  were  fairly  quiet,  even  slightly 
mournful  ;  jaws  munched  busily,  and  glasses 
were  emptied,  but  sigiis  too  were  audible — 
possibly  sighs  of  digestion,  but  possibly  also 
of  feeling.  There  were  references  to  death, 
allusions  to  the  brevity  of  human  life,  and  the 
fleeting  nature  of  earthly  hopes.  The  officer 
of  roads  and  highways  related  a  military  but 
still  edifying  anecdote.  The  priest  in  the 
calotte  expressed  his  approval,  and  himself 
contributed  an  interesting  fact  from  the  life  of 
the  saint,  Ivan  the  Warrior.  The  priest  with 
the  superbly  arranged  hair,  though  his  atten- 
tion was  chiefly  engrossed  by  the  edibles,  gave 
utterance  to  something  improving  on  the  sub- 
ject of  chastity.  But  little  by  little  all  this 
changed.  Faces  grew  redder,  and  voices  grew 
louder,  and  laughter  reasserted  itself;  one 
began  to  hear  disconnected  exclamations,  car- 
essing appellations,  after  the  manner  of  '  dear 
old  boy,'  '  dear  heart  alive,'  '  old  cock,'  and 
even  '  a  pig  like  that ' — everything,  in  fact,  of 
which  the  Russian  nature  is  so  lavish,  when,  as 
they  say,  'it  comes  unbuttoned.'  By  the  time 
that  the  corks  of  home-made  champagne  were 
popping,  the  party  had  become  noisy  ;  some 
one  even  crowed  like  a  cock,  while  another 
163 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

guest  was  offering  to  bite  up  and  swallow  the 
glass  out  of  which  he  had  just  been  drinking. 
Mr.  Ratsch,  no  longer  red  but  purple,  suddenly 
rose  from  his  seat  ;  he  had  been  guffawing 
and  making  a  great  noise  before,  but  now  he 
asked  leave  to  make  a  speech.  '  Speak  !  Out 
with  it ! '  every  one  roared  ;  the  old  man  in 
the  smock  even  bawled  'bravo!'  and  clapped  his 
hands  ,  .  .  but  he  was  already  sitting  on  the 
floor.  Mr.  Ratsch  lifted  his  glass  high  above 
his  head,  and  announced  that  he  proposed  in 
brief  but  'impressionable'  phrases  to  refer  to 
the  qualities  of  the  noble  soul  which,  'leaving 
here,  so  to  say,  its  earthly  husk  (die  irdische 
Hiille)  has  soared  to  heaven,  and  plunged 
.  .  .'  Mr.  Ratsch  corrected  himself:  'and 
plashed.  .  .  .'  He  again  corrected  himself:  'and 
plunged  .  .  .' 

'  Father  deacon  !  Reverend  sir  !  My  good 
soul ! '  we  heard  a  subdued  but  insistent 
whisper,  'they  say  you've  a  devilish  good 
voice  ;  honour  us  with  a  song,  strike  up  :  "  We 
live  among  the  fields  !  "  ' 

'  Sh  !  sh !  .  .  .  Shut  up  there ! '  passed  over 
the  lips  of  the  guests, 

.  .  .  '  Plunged  all  her  devoted  family,'  pursued 
Mr.  Ratsch,  turning  a  severe  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  lover  of  music,  'plunged  all 
her  family  into  the  most  irreplaceable  grief! 
Yes ! '  cried  Ivan  Demianitch,  '  well  may  the 
164 


AN    UNIIAITY   GIRL 

Russian  proverb  say,  "  Fate  spares  not  the 
rod."  .  .  .' 

'  Stop  !  Gentlemen  ! '  shouted  a  hoarse  voice 
at  the  end  of  the  table, '  my  purse  has  just  been 
stolen !  .  .  .' 

*  Ah,  the  swindler ! '  piped  another  voice,  and 
slap !  went  a  box  on  the  ear. 

Heavens !  What  followed  then !  It  was 
as  though  the  wild  beast,  till  then  only  growl- 
ing and  faintly  stirring  within  us,  had  suddenly 
broken  from  its  chains  and  reared  up,  ruffled 
and  fierce  in  all  its  hideousness.  It  seemed  as 
though  every  one  had  been  secretly  expecting 
*a  scandal,'  as  the  natural  outcome  and  sequel 
of  a  banquet,  and  all,  as  it  were,  rushed 
to  welcome  it,  to  support  it.  .  .  .  Plates, 
glasses  clattered  and  rolled  about,  chairs  were 
upset,  a  deafening  din  arose,  hands  were  waving 
in  the  air,  coat-tails  were  flying,  and  a  fight 
began  in  earnest. 

'  Give  it  him  !  give  it  him  ! '  roared  like  mad 
my  neighbour,  the  fishmonger,  who  had  till 
that  instant  seemed  to  be  the  most  peaceable 
person  in  the  world  ;  it  is  true  he  had  been 
silently  drinking  some  dozen  glasses  of  spirits. 
'Thrash  him !  .  .  .' 

Who  was  to  be  thrashed,  and  what  he  was  to 
be  thrashed  for,  he  had  no  idea,  but  he  bellowed 
furiously. 

The  police  superintendent's  assistant,  the 
i6s 


AN    UNHAPl'Y   GIRL 

officer  of  roads  and  highways,  and  Mr.  Ratsch, 
who  had  probably  not  expected  such  a  speedy 
termination  to  his  eloquence,  tried  to  restore 
order  .  .  .  but  their  efforts  were  unavailing. 
My  neighbour,  the  fishmonger,  even  fell  foul 
of  Mr.  Ratsch  himself. 

'He's  murdered  the  young  woman,  the 
blasted  German,'  he  yelled  at  him,  shaking  his 
fists;  'he's  bought  over  the  police,  and  here 
he 's  crowing  over  it ! ! ' 

At  this  point  the  waiters  ran  in.  .  .  .  What 
happened  further  I  don't  know ;  I  snatched  up 
my  cap  in  all  haste,  and  made  off  as  fast  as 
my  legs  would  carry  me!  All  I  remember  is  a 
fearful  crash  ;  I  recall,  too,  the  remains  of  a 
herring  in  the  hair  of  the  old  man  in  the 
smock,  a  priest's  hat  flying  right  across  the 
room,  the  pale  face  of  Viktor  huddled  up  in  a 
corner,  and  a  red  beard  in  the  grasp  of  a 
muscular  hand.  .  .  .  Such  were  the  last  im- 
pressions I  carried  away  of  the  '  memorial 
banquet,'  arranged  by  the  excellent  Sigismund 
Sigismundovitch  in  honour  of  poor  Susanna. 

After  resting  a  little,  I  set  off  to  see  Fustov, 
and  told  him  all  of  which  I  had  been  a  witness 
during  that  day.  He  listened  to  me,  sitting 
still,  and  not  raising  his  head,  and  putting  both 
hands  under  his  legs,  he  murmured  again,  'Ah  ! 
my  poor  girl,  my  poor  girl ! '  and  again  lay 
down  on  the  sofa  and  turned  his  back  on  me. 
1 66 


AN    UNIIAPrV   GIRL 


A  week  later  he  seemed  to  have  quite  got 
over  it,  and  took  up  his  life  as  before.  I  asked 
him  for  Susanna's  manuscript  as  a  keepsake: 
he  gave  it  me  without  raising  any  objection. 


XXVIII 

Several  years  passed  by.  My  aunt  was  dead  ; 
I  had  left  Moscow  and  settled  in  Petersburg. 
Fustov  too  had  moved  to  Petersburg.  He 
had  entered  the  department  of  the  Ministry 
of  Finance,  but  we  rarely  met  and  I  saw  nothing 
much  in  him  then.  An  official  like  every  one 
else,  and  nothing  more  !  If  he  is  still  living 
and  not  married,  he  is,  most  likely,  unchanged 
to  this  day ;  he  carves  and  carpenters  and  uses 
dumb-bells,  and  is  as  much  a  lady-killer  as 
ever,  and  sketches  Napoleon  in  a  blue  uniform 
in  the  albums  of  his  lady  friends.  It  happened 
that  I  had  to  go  to  Moscow  on  business.  In 
Moscow  I  learned,  with  considerable  surprise, 
that  the  fortunes  of  my  former  acquaintance, 
Mr.  Ratsch,  had  taken  an  adverse  turn.  His 
wife  had,  indeed,  presented  him  with  twins,  two 
boys,  whom  as  a  true  Russian  he  had  christened 
Briacheslav  and  Viacheslav,  but  his  house  had 
been  burnt  down,  he  had  been  forced  to  retire 
from  his  position,  and  worst  of  all,  his  eldest 
son,  Viktor,  had  become  practically  a  per- 
167 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

manent  inmate  of  the  debtors'  prison.  During 
my  stay  in  Moscow,  among  a  company  at 
a  friendly  gathering,  I  chanced  to  hear 
an  allusion  made  to  Susanna,  and  a  most 
slighting,  most  insulting  allusion  !  I  did 
all  I  could  to  defend  the  memory  of  the 
unhappy  girl,  to  whom  fate  had  denied  even 
the  charity  of  oblivion,  but  my  arguments  did 
not  make  much  impression  on  my  audience. 
One  of  them,  a  young  student  poet,  was,  how- 
ever, a  little  moved  by  my  words.  He  sent  me 
next  day  a  poem,  which  I  have  forgotten,  but 
which  ended  in  the  following  four  lines : 

'  Her  tomb  lies  cold,  forlorn,  but  even  death 
Her  gentle  spirit's  memory  cannot  save 
From  the  sly  voice  of  slander  whispering  on, 
Withering  the  flowers  on  her  forsaken  tomb.  .  .  .' 

I  read  these  lines  and  unconsciously  sank  into 
musing.  Susanna's  image  rose  before  me ; 
once  more  I  seemed  to  see  the  frozen  window 
in  my  room  ;  I  recalled  that  evening  and  the 
blustering  snowstorm,  and  those  words,  those 
sobs.  ...  I  began  to  ponder  how  it  was  pos- 
sible to  explain  Susanna's  love  for  Fustov, 
and  why  she  had  so  quickly,  so  impulsively 
given  way  to  despair,  as  soon  as  she  saw 
herself  forsaken.  How  was  it  she  had  had  no 
desire  to  wait  a  little,  to  hear  the  bitter  truth 
from  the  lips  of  the  man  she  loved,  to  write  to 
him,  even  ?  How  could  she  fling  herself  at  once 
i68 


AN    UNHAPPY   GIRL 

headlonfj  into  the  abyss?  Because  she  was 
passionately  in  love  with  Fustov,  I  shall  be 
told  ;  because  she  could  not  bear  the  slightest 
doubt  of  his  devotion,  of  his  respect  for  her. 
Perhaps  ;  or  perhaps  because  she  was  not  at 
all  so  passionately  in  love  with  Fustov ;  that 
she  did  not  deceive  herself  about  him,  but 
simply  rested  her  last  hopes  on  him,  and 
could  not  get  over  the  thought  that 
even  this  man  had  at  once,  at  the  first 
breath  of  slander,  turned  away  from  her  with 
contempt!  Who  can  say  what  killed  her; 
wounded  pride,  or  the  wretchedness  of  her 
helpless  position,  or  the  very  memory  of  that 
first,  noble,  true-hearted  nature  to  whom  she 
had  so  joyfully  pledged  herself  in  the  morning 
of  her  early  days,  who  had  so  deeply  trusted 
her,  and  so  honoured  her  ?  Who  knows  ; 
perhaps  at  the  very  instant  when  I  fancied 
that  her  dead  lips  were  murmuring,  'he  did 
not  come ! '  her  soul  was  rejoicing  that  she 
had  gone  herself  to  him,  to  her  Michel  ?  The 
secrets  of  human  life  are  great,  and  love 
itself,  the  most  impenetrable  of  those  secrets, 
.  .  .  Anyway,  to  this  day,  whenever  the  image 
of  Susanna  rises  before  me,  I  cannot  overcome 
a  feeling  of  pity  for  her,  and  of  angry  reproach 
against  fate,  and  my  lips  whisper  instinctively, 
'  Unhappy  girl  I  unhappy  girl  1 ' 

1868. 

169 


THE  DUELLIST 
I 

A  REGIMENT  of  cuirassiers  was  quartered  in 

1829  in  the  village  of  Kirilovo,  in  the  K 

province.  That  village,  with  its  huts  and  hay- 
stacks, its  green  hemp-patches,  and  gaunt 
willows,  looked  from  a  distance  like  an  island 
in  a  boundless  sea  of  ploughed,  black-earth 
fields.  In  the  middle  of  the  village  was  a 
small  pond,  invariably  covered  with  goose 
feathers,  with  muddy,  indented  banks ;  a 
hundred  paces  from  the  pond,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road,  rose  the  wooden  manor-house, 
long,  empty,  and  mournfully  slanting  on  one 
side.  Behind  the  house  stretched  the  deserted 
garden ;  in  the  garden  grew  old  apple-trees 
that  bore  no  fruit,  and  tall  birch-trees,  full  of 
rooks'  nests.  At  the  end  of  the  principal 
garden-walk,  in  a  little  house,  once  the  bath- 
house, lived  a  decrepit  old  steward.  Every 
morning,  gasping  and  groaning,  he  would, 
from  years  of  habit,  drag  himself  across  tiie 
170 


THE   DUELLIST 

garden  to  the  seignorial  apartments,  thou^i^h 
there  was  nothing  to  take  care  of  in  them 
except  a  dozen  white  arm-chairs,  upholstered 
in  faded  stuff,  two  podgy  chests  on  carved 
legs  with  copper  handles,  four  pictures  with 
holes  in  them,  and  one  black  alabaster  Arab 
with  a  broken  nose.  The  owner  of  the  house,  a 
careless  young  man,  lived  partly  at  Petersburg, 
partly  abroad,  and  had  completely  forgotten 
his  estate.  It  had  come  to  him  eight  years 
before,  from  a  very  old  uncle,  once  noted  all 
over  the  countryside  for  his  excellent  liqueurs. 
The  empty,  dark-green  bottles  are  to  this  day 
lying  about  in  the  storeroom,  in  company  with 
rubbish  of  all  sorts,  old  manuscript  books  in 
parti-coloured  covers,  scantily  filled  with  writ- 
ing, old-fashioned  glass  lustres,  a  nobleman's 
uniform  of  the  Catherine  period,  a  rusty  sabre 
with  a  steel  handle  and  so  forth.  In  one  of  the 
lodges  of  the  great  house  the  colonel  himself 
took  up  his  abode.  He  was  a  married  man, 
tall,  sparing  of  his  words,  grim  and  sleepy. 
In  another  lodge  lived  the  regimental  adjutant, 
an  emotional  person  of  fine  sentiments  and 
many  perfumes,  fond  of  flowers  and  female 
society.  The  social  life  of  the  officers  of  this 
regiment  did  not  differ  from  any  other  kind 
of  society.  Among  their  number  were  good 
people  and  bad,  clever  and  silly.  .  .  One  of 
them,  a  certain  Avdey  Ivanovitch  Lutchkov, 
171 


THE   DUELLIST 

staff  captain,  had  a  reputation  as  a  duellist. 
Lutchkov  was  a  short  and  not  thick-set  man  ; 
he  had  a  small,  yellowish,  dry  face,  lank,  black 
hair,  unnoticeable  features,  and  dark,  little 
eyes.  He  had  early  been  left  an  orphan,  and 
had  grown  up  among  privations  and  hard- 
ships. For  weeks  together  he  would  be  quiet 
enough,  .  .  .  and  then  all  at  once — as  though 
he  were  possessed  by  some  devil — he  would 
let  no  one  alone,  annoying  everybody,  staring 
every  one  insolently  in  the  face  ;  trying,  in 
fact,  to  pick  a  quarrel.  Avdey  Ivanovitch  did 
not,  however,  hold  aloof  from  intercourse  with 
his  comrades,  but  he  was  not  on  intimate  terms 
with  any  one  but  the  perfumed  adjutant.  He 
did  not  play  cards,  and  did  not  drink  spirits. 

In  the  May  of  1829,  not  long  before  the 
beginning  of  the  manoeuvres,  there  joined  the 
regiment  a  young  cornet,  Fyodor  Fedorovitch 
Kister,  a  Russian  nobleman  of  German  extrac- 
tion, very  fair-haired  and  very  modest,  culti- 
vated and  well  read.  He  had  lived  up  to  his 
twentieth  year  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  under 
the  wings  of  his  mother,  his  grandmother,  and 
his  two  aunts.  He  was  going  into  the  army  in 
deference  solely  to  the  wishes  of  his  grand- 
mother, who  even  in  her  old  age  could  not  see 
a  white  plumed  helmet  without  emotion.  .  .  . 
He  served  with  no  special  enthusiasm  but  with 
energy,  as  it  were  conscientiously  doing  his 
17a 


THE   DUELLIST 

duty.  He  was  not  a  dandy,  but  was  always 
cleanly  dressed  and  in  good  taste.  On  the 
day  of  his  arrival  Fyodor  Fedoritch  paid  his 
respects  to  his  superior  officers,  and  then 
proceeded  to  arrange  his  quarters.  He  had 
brought  with  him  some  cheap  furniture,  rugs, 
shelves,  and  so  forth.  He  papered  all  the  walls 
and  the  doors,  put  up  some  screens,  had  the 
yard  cleaned,  fixed  up  a  stable,  and  a  kitchen, 
even  arranged  a  place  for  a  bath.  .  .  .  For  a 
whole  week  he  was  busily  at  work  ;  but  it  was 
a  pleasure  afterwards  to  go  into  his  room. 
Before  the  window  stood  a  neat  table,  covered 
with  various  little  things  ;  in  one  corner  was  a 
set  of  shelves  for  books,  with  busts  of  Schiller 
and  Goethe ;  on  the  walls  hung  maps,  four 
Grevedon  heads,  and  guns ;  near  the  table 
was  an  elegant  row  of  pipes  with  clean  mouth- 
pieces ;  there  was  a  rug  in  the  outer  room  ; 
all  the  doors  shut  and  locked  ;  the  windows 
were  hung  with  curtains.  Everything  in 
Fyodor  Fedoritch's  room  had  a  look  of  cleanli- 
ness and  order. 

It  was  quite  a  different  thing  in  his  com- 
rades' quarters.  Often  one  could  scarcely 
make  one's  way  across  the  muddy  yard  ;  in 
the  outer  room,  behind  a  canvas  screen,  with 
its  covering  peeling  off  it,  would  lie  stretched 
the  snoring  orderly  ;  on  the  floor  rotten  straw  ; 
on  the  stove,  boots  and  a  broken  jam-pot 
173 


THE  DUELLIST 

full  of  blacking  ;  in  the  room  itself  a  warped 
card-table,  marked  with  chalk  ;  on  the  table, 
glasses,  half-full  of  cold,  dark-brown  tea; 
against  the  wall,  a  wide,  rickety,  greasy  sofa ; 
on  the  window-sills,  tobacco-ash.  ...  In  a 
podgy,  clumsy  arm-chair  one  would  find  the 
master  of  the  place  in  a  grass-green  dress- 
ing-gown with  crimson  plush  facings  and  an 
embroidered  smoking-cap  of  Asiatic  extrac- 
tion, and  a  hideously  fat,  unpleasant  dog  in  a 
stinking  brass  collar  would  be  snoring  at  his 
side.  .  .  .  All  the  doors  always  ajar.  .  .  . 

Fyodor  Fedoritch  made  a  favourable  im- 
pression on  his  new  comrades.  They  liked 
him  for  his  good-nature,  modesty,  warm- 
heartedness, and  natural  inclination  for  every- 
thing beautiful,  for  everything,  in  fact,  which 
in  another  officer  they  might,  very  likely,  have 
thought  out  of  place.  They  called  Kister  a 
young  lady,  and  were  kind  and  gentle  in  their 
manners  with  him.  Avdey  Ivanovitch  was  the 
only  one  who  eyed  him  dubiously.  One  day 
after  drill  Lutchkov  went  up  to  him,  slightly 
pursing  up  his  lips  and  inflating  his  nostrils : 
'Good-morning,  Mr.  Knaster.' 

Kister  looked  at  him  in  some  perplexity. 

'A  very  good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Knaster,' 
repeated  Lutchkov. 

'My  name's  Kister,  sir.' 

'You  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Knaster.' 
174 


THE   DUELLIST 

Fyodor  Fedoritch  turned  his  back  on  him 
and  went  homewards.  Lutchkov  looked  after 
him  with  a  grin. 

Next  day,  directly  after  drill  he  went  up  to 
Kister  again. 

'  Well,  how  are  you  getting  on,  Mr.  Kinder- 
balsam  ? ' 

Kister  was  angry,  and  looked  him  straight 
in  the  face.  Avdey  Ivanovitch's  little  bilious 
eyes  were  gleaming  with  malignant  glee. 

'  I  'm  addressing  you,  Mr.  Kinderbalsam  I ' 

'Sir,' Fyodor  Fedoritch  replied,  '  I  consider 
your  joke  stupid  and  ill-bred — do  you  hear  ? 
— stupid  and  ill-bred.' 

•  When  shall  we  fight  ? '  Lutchkov  responded 
composedly. 

•  When  you  like,  .  .  .  to-morrow.' 

Next  morning  they  fought  a  duel,  Lutchkov 
wounded  Kister  slightly,  and  to  the  extreme 
astonishment  of  the  seconds  went  up  to  the 
wounded  man,  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
begged  his  pardon.  Kister  had  to  keep  in- 
doors for  a  fortnight.  Avdey  Ivanovitch  came 
several  times  to  ask  after  him  and  on  Fyodor 
Fedoritch's  recovery  made  friends  with  him. 
Whether  he  was  pleased  by  the  young  officer's 
pluck,  or  whether  a  feeling  akin  to  remorse 
was  roused  in  his  soul — it 's  hard  to  say  .  .  . 
but  from  the  time  of  his  duel  with  Kister, 
Avdey  Ivanovitch  scarcely  left  his  side,  and 
175 


THE  DUELLIST 

called  him  first  Fyodor,  and  afterwards  simply 
Fedya.  In  his  presence  he  became  quite 
anotlier  man  and — strange  to  say! — the  change 
was  not  in  his  favour.  It  did  not  suit  him  to 
be  gentle  and  soft.  Sympathy  he  could  not 
call  forth  in  any  one  anyhow ;  such  was  his 
destiny  !  He  belonged  to  that  class  of  persons 
to  whom  has  somehow  been  granted  the 
privilege  of  authority  over  others ;  but  nature 
had  denied  him  the  gifts  essential  for  the 
justification  of  such  a  privilege.  Having  re- 
ceived no  education,  not  being  distinguished 
by  intelligence,  he  ought  not  to  have  revealed 
himself;  possibly  his  malignancy  had  its  origin 
in  his  consciousness  of  the  defects  of  his 
bringing  up,  in  the  desire  to  conceal  himself 
altogether  under  one  unchanging  mask.  Avdey 
Ivanovitch  had  at  first  forced  himself  to  despise 
people,  then  he  began  to  notice  that  it  was  not 
a  difficult  matter  to  intimidate  them,  and  he 
began  to  despise  them  in  reality.  Lutchkov 
enjoyed  cutting  short  by  his  very  approach 
all  but  the  most  vulgar  conversation.  '  I  know 
nothing,  and  have  learned  nothing,  and  I  have 
no  talents,'  he  said  to  himself;  'and  so  you  too 
shall  know  nothing  and  not  show  off  your 
talents  before  me.  ,.  .  .'  Kister,  perhaps,  had 
made  Lutchkov  abandon  the  part  he  had 
taken  up — just  because  before  his  acquaintance 
with  him,  the  bully  had  never  met  any  one 
176 


THE   DUELLIST 

genuinely  idealistic,  that  is  to  sa}',  unselfishly 
and  simple-heartedly  absorbed  in  dreams,  and 
so,  indulgent  to  others,  and  not  full  of  himself. 

Avdey  Ivanovitch  would  come  sometimes 
to  Kister,  light  a  pipe  and  quietly  sit  down  in 
an  arm-chair.  Lutchkov  was  not  in  Kister's 
company  abashed  by  his  own  ignorance;  he 
relied — and  with  good  reason — on  his  German 
modesty, 

'Well,'  he  would  begin,  'what  did  you  do 
yesterday?     Been  reading,  I'll  bet,  eh?' 

'  Yes,  I  read.  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  and  what  did  you  read  ?  Come,  tell 
away,  old  man,  tell  away.'  Avdey  Ivanovitch 
kept  up  his  bantering  tone  to  the  end. 

'  I  read  Kleist's  Idyll.  Ah,  what  a  fine  thing 
it  is  !  If  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  translate  you  a 
few  lines.  .  .  ,'  And  Kister  translated  with 
fervour,  while  Lutchkov,  wrinkling  up  his  fore- 
head and  compressing  his  lips,  listened  atten- 
tively. .  .  .  '  Yes,  yes,'  he  would  repeat  hurriedly, 
with  a  disagreeable  smile,  'it's  fine  .  .  .  very 
fine.  ...  I  remember,  I  've  read  it  .  .  .  very 
fine.' 

'  Tell  me,  please,'  he  added  affectedly,  and 
as  it  were  reluctantly,  '  what 's  your  view  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth?' 

And  Kister  would  proceed  to  discourse  upon 
Louis  the  Fourteenth,  while  Lutchkov  listened, 
totally  failing  to  understand  a  great  deal,  mis- 
M  177 


THE   DUELLIST 

understanding  a  part  ,  .  .  and  at  last  venturing 
to  make  a  remark.  .  .  .  This  threw  him  into 
a  cold  sweat ;  '  now,  if  I  'm  making  a  fool 
of  myself,'  he  thought.  And  as  a  fact  he 
often  did  make  a  fool  of  himself.  But  Kister 
was  never  off-hand  in  his  replies;  the  good- 
hearted  youth  was  inwardly  rejoicing  that, 
as  he  thought,  the  desire  for  enlightenment  was 
awakened  in  a  fellow-creature.  Alas  !  it  was 
from  no  desire  for  enlightenment  that  Avdey 
Ivanovitch  questioned  Kister ;  God  knows 
why  he  did  !  Possibly  he  wished  to  ascertain 
for  himself  what  sort  of  head  he,  Lutchkov, 
had,  whether  it  was  really  dull,  or  simply  un- 
trained. '  So  I  really  am  stupid,'  he  said  to 
himself  more  than  once  with  a  bitter  smile ; 
and  he  would  draw  himself  up  instantly  and 
look  rudely  and  insolently  about  him,  and 
smile  malignantly  to  himself  if  he  caught 
some  comrade  dropping  his  eyes  before  his 
glance.  '  All  right,  my  man,  you  're  so  learned 
and  well  educated,  .  .  .'  he  would  mutter  be- 
tween his  teeth.  '  I  'U  show  you  .  .  .  that 's 
all.  .  .  .' 

The  officers  did  not  long  discuss  the  sudden 
friendship  of  Kister  and  Lutchkov  ;  they  were 
used  to  the  duellist's  queer  ways.  'The  devil 's 
made  friends  with  the  baby,'  they  said.  .  .  . 
Kister  was  warm  in  his  praises  of  his  friend 
on  all  hands;  no  one  disputed  his  opinion, 
178 


THE    DUELLIST 


because  they  were  afraid  of  Lutchkov  ;  Lutch- 
kov  himself  never  mentioned  Kistcr's  name 
before  the  others,  but  he  dropped  his  intimacy 
with  the  perfumed  adjutant. 


11 


The  landowners  of  the  South  of  Russia  are 
very  keen  on  giving  balls,  inviting  officers  to 
their  houses,  and  marrying  off  their  daughters. 

About  seven  miles  from  the  village  of 
Kirilovo  lived  just  such  a  country  gentleman, 
a  Mr.  Perekatov,  the  owner  of  four  hundred 
souls,  and  a  fairly  spacious  house.  He  had  a 
daughter  of  eighteen,  Mashenka,  and  a  wife, 
Nenila  Makarievna.  Mr.  Perekatov  had  once 
been  an  officer  in  the  cavalry,  but  from  love  of 
a  country  life  and  from  indolence  he  had  re- 
tired and  had  begun  to  live  peaceably  and 
quietly,  as  landowners  of  the  middling  sort  do 
live.  Nenila  Makarievna  owed  her  existence 
in  a  not  perfectly  legitimate  manner  to  a  dis- 
tinguished gentleman  of  Moscow. 

Her  protector  had  educated  his  little  Nenila 
very  carefully,  as  it  is  called,  in  his  own  house, 
but  got  her  off  his  hands  rather  hurriedly,  at 
the  first  offer,  as  a  not  very  marketable  article. 
Nenila  Makarievna  was  ugly  ;  the  distinguished 
gentleman  was  giving  her  no  more  than  ten 
179 


THE  DUELLIST 

thousand  as  dowry  ;  she  snatched  eagerly  at 
Mr.  Perekatov.  To  Mr.  Perekatov  it  seemed  ex- 
tremely gratifying  to  marry  a  highly  educated, 
intellectual  young  lady  .  .  .  who  was,  after  all, 
so  closely  related  to  so  illustrious  a  personage. 
This  illustrious  personage  extended  his  patron- 
age to  the  young  people  even  after  the  marriage, 
that  is  to  say,  he  accepted  presents  of  salted 
quails  from  them  and  called  Perekatov  '  my 
dear  boy,'  and  sometimes  simply,  *  boy.' 
Nenila  Makarievna  took  complete  possession 
of  her  husband,  managed  everything,  and 
looked  after  the  whole  property — very  sensibly, 
indeed  ;  far  better,  any  way,  than  Mr.  Pereka- 
tov could  have  done.  She  did  not  hamper  her 
partner's  liberty  too  much  ;  but  she  kept  him 
well  in  hand,  ordered  his  clothes  herself,  and 
dressed  him  in  the  English  style,  as  is  fitting 
and  proper  for  a  country  gentleman.  By 
her  instructions,  Mr.  Perekatov  grew  a  little 
Napoleonic  beard  on  his  chin,  to  cover  a  large 
wart,  which  looked  like  an  over-ripe  raspberry. 
Nenila  Makarievna,  for  her  part,  used  to  inform 
visitors  that  her  husband  played  the  flute, 
and  that  all  flute-players  always  let  the  beard 
grow  under  the  lower  lip  ;  they  could  hold 
their  instrument  more  comfortably.  Mr.  Pere- 
katov always,  even  in  the  early  morning,  wore 
a  high,  clean  stock,  and  was  well  combed  and 
washed.  He  was,  moreover,  well  content  with 
i8o 


THE   DUELLIST 

his  lot ;  he  dined  very  well,  did  as  he  liked,  and 
slept  all  he  could.  Nenila  Makarievna  had 
introduced  into  her  household  '  foreign  ways,' 
as  the  neighbours  used  to  say  ;  she  kept  few 
servants,  and  had  them  neatly  dressed.  She 
was  fretted  by  ambition  ;  she  wanted  at  least  to 
be  the  wife  of  the  marshal  of  the  nobility  of  the 
district ;  but  the  gentry  of  the  district,  though 
they  dined  at  her  house  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent, did  not  choose  her  husband,  but  first  the 
retired  premier-major  Burkolts,  and  then  the 
retired  second  major  Burundukov.  Mr.  Pere- 
katov  seemed  to  them  too  extreme  a  product 
of  the  capital. 

Mr.  Perekatov's  daughter,  Mashenka,  was  in 
face  like  her  father.  Nenila  Makarievna  had 
taken  the  greatest  pains  with  her  education. 
She  spoke  French  well,  and  played  the  piano 
fairly.  She  was  of  medium  height,  rather 
plump  and  white ;  her  rather  full  face  was 
lighted  up  by  a  kindly  and  merry  smile  ;  her 
flaxen,  not  over-abundant  hair,  her  hazel  eyes, 
her  pleasant  voice — everything  about  her  was 
gently  pleasing,  and  that  was  all.  On  the 
other  hand  the  absence  of  all  affectation  and 
conventionality,  an  amount  of  culture  ex- 
ceptional in  a  country  girl,  the  freedom  of  her 
expressions,  the  quiet  simplicity  of  her  words 
and  looks  could  not  but  be  striking  in  her. 
She   had    developed    at   her   own    free   will ; 


THE   DUELLIST 

Nenila   Makarievna  did   not  keep  her  in   re- 
straint. 

One  morning  at  twelve  o'clock  the  whole 
family  of  the  Perekatovs  were  in  the  drawing- 
room.  The  husband  in  a  round  green  coat,  a 
high  check  cravat,  and  pea-green  trousers  with 
straps,  was  standing  at  the  window,  very  busily 
engaged  in  catching  flies.  The  daughter  was 
sitting  at  her  embroidery  frame  ;  her  small 
dimpled  little  hand  rose  and  fell  slowly  and 
gracefully  over  the  canvas.  Nenila  Makarievna 
was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  gazing  in  silence  at  the 
floor. 

'  Did  you  send  an  invitation  to  the  regiment 
at  Kirilovo,  Sergei  Sergeitch  ? '  she  asked  her 
husband. 

'  For  this  evening  ?  To  be  sure  I  did,  ma 
ch^re.'  (He  was  under  the  strictest  orders  not 
to  call  her  '  little  mother.')     '  To  be  sure  ! ' 

'There  are  positively  no  gentlemen,'  pursued 
Nenila  Makarievna.  '  Nobody  for  the  girls  to 
dance  with.' 

Her  husband  sighed,  as  though  crushed  by 
the  absence  of  partners. 

'  Mamma,'  Masha  began  all  at  once,  *  is 
Monsieur  Lutchkov  asked  ?' 

'  What  Lutchkov?' 

'  He 's  an  officer  too.  They  say  he 's  a  very 
interesting  person.' 

•How's  that?' 

182 


THE   DUELLIST 

'Oh,  he's  not  good-looking  and  he's  not 
young,  but  every  one  's  afraid  of  him.  He 's  a 
dreadful  duellist'  (Mamma  frowned  a  little.) 
'  I  should  so  like  to  see  him.' 

Sergei  Sergcitch  interrupted  his  daughter. 

'What  is  there  to  see  in  him,  my  darling? 
Do  you  suppose  he  must  look  like  Lord 
Byron?'  (At  that  time  we  were  only  just 
beginning  to  talk  about  Lord  Byron.)  '  Non- 
sense !  Why,  I  declare,  my  dear,  there  was  a 
time  when  I  had  a  terrible  character  as  a 
fighting  man.' 

Masha  looked  wonderingly  at  her  parent, 
laughed,  then  jumped  up  and  kissed  him  on 
the  cheek.  His  wife  smiled  a  little,  too  .  .  . 
but  Sergei  Sergeitch  had  spoken  the  truth. 

'  I  don't  know  if  that  gentleman  is  coming,' 
observed  Nenila  Makarievna.  '  Possibly  he 
may  come  too.' 

The  daughter  sighed. 

'  Mind  you  don't  go  and  fall  in  love  with 
him,'  remarked  Sergei  Sergeitch.  '  I  know 
you  girls  are  all  like  that  nowadays — so — 
what  shall  I  say? — romantic  .  .  .' 

'No,'  Masha  responded  simply. 

Nenila  Makarievna  looked  coldly  at  her 
husband.  Sergei  Sergeitch  played  with  his 
watch-chain  in  some  embarrassment,  then  took 
his  wide-brimmed,  English  hat  from  the  table, 
and  set  off  to  see  after  things  on  the  estate. 
183 


THE   DUELLIST 

His  dog  timidly  and  meekly  followed  him. 
As  an  intelligent  animal,  she  was  well  aware 
that  her  master  was  not  a  person  of  very  great 
authority  in  the  house,  and  behaved  herself 
accordingly  with  modesty  and  circumspec- 
tion. 

Nenila  Makarievna  went  up  to  her  daughter, 
gently  raised  her  head,  and  looked  affectionately 
into  her  eyes.  '  Will  you  tell  me  when  you  fall 
in  love  ? '  she  asked. 

Masha  kissed  her  mother's  hand,  smiling, 
and  nodded  her  head  several  times  in  the 
affirmative. 

'  Mind  you  do,'  observed  Nenila  Makarievna, 
stroking  her  cheek,  and  she  went  out  after  her 
husband.  Masha  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom,  interlaced  her 
fingers,  and  looked  long  out  of  window, 
screwing  up  her  eyes  ...  A  slight  flush  passed 
over  her  fresh  cheeks  ;  with  a  sigh  she  drew 
herself  up,  was  setting  to  work  again,  but 
dropped  her  needle,  leaned  her  face  on  her 
hand,  and  biting  the  tips  of  her  nails,  fell  to 
dreaming  .  .  .  then  glanced  at  her  own 
shoulder,  at  her  outstretched  hand,  got  up, 
went  to  the  window,  laughed,  put  on  her  hat 
and  went  out  into  the  garden. 

That  evening  at  eight  o'clock,  the  guests 
began  to  arrive.  Madame  Perekatov  with 
great  affability  received  and  'entertained'  the 
184 


THE   PTTELLIST 

ladies,  Mashenka  the  girls  ;  Sergei  Sergeitch 
talked  about  the  crops  with  the  gentlemen 
and  continually  glanced  towards  his  wife. 
Soon  there  arrived  tiie  young  dandies,  the 
officers,  intentionally  a  little  late ;  at  last  the 
colonel  himself,  accompanied  by  his  adjutants, 
Kister  and  Lutchkov.  He  presented  them  to 
the  lady  of  the  house.  Lutchkov  bowed  with- 
out speaking,  Kister  muttered  the  customary 
*  extremely  delighted  '  .  .  .  Mr.  Perekatov  went 
up  to  the  colonel,  pressed  his  hand  warmly  and 
looked  him  in  the  face  with  great  cordiality. 
The  colonel  promptly  looked  forbidding.  The 
dancing  began.  Kister  asked  Mashenka  for  a 
dance.  At  that  time  the  Ecossaise  was  still 
flourishing. 

'  Do  tell  me,  please,'  Masha  said  to  him, 
when,  after  galloping  twenty  times  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  they  stood  at  last,  the  first  couple, 
'  why  isn't  your  friend  dancing  ? ' 

•  Which  friend  ? ' 

Masha  pointed  with  the  tip  of  her  fan  at 
Lutchkov. 

'  He  never  dances,'  answered  Kister. 

'  Why  did  he  come  then  ?  ' 

Kister  was  a  little  disconcerted.  '  He  wished 
to  have  the  pleasure  .  .  .' 

Mashenka  interrupted  him.  'You've  not 
long  been  transferred  into  our  regiment,  I 
think  ? ' 

185 


THE   DUELLIST 

•  Into  your  regiment,'  observed  Kister,  with 
a  smile:  'no,  not  long.' 

'  Aren't  you  dull  here?  ' 

*Oh  no  ...  I  find  such  delightful  society 
here  .  .  .  and  the  scenery ! '  .  .  .  Kister  launched 
into  eulogies  of  the  scenery.  Masha  listened 
to  him,  without  raising  her  head.  Avdey 
Ivanovitch  was  standing  in  a  corner,  looking 
indifferently  at  the  dancers. 

•How  old  is  Mr.  Lutchkov?'  she  asked 
suddenly. 

•  Oh  ,  .  .  thirty-five,  I  fancy,'  answered 
Kister. 

'  They  say  he 's  a  dangerous  man  .  .  .  hot- 
tempered,'  Masha  added  hurriedly. 

•  He  is  a  little  hasty  .  .  »  but  still,  he 's  a 
very  fine  man.' 

'  They  say  every  one  's  afraid  of  him.* 
Kister  laughed. 

•  And  you  ? ' 

'  I  'm  a  friend  of  his.' 

•  Really  ? ' 

'  Your  turn,  your  turn,'  wis  shrieked  at 
them  from  all  sides.  They  started  and  began 
galloping  again  right  across  the  room. 

•Well,  I  congratulate  you,'  Kister  said  to 
Lutchkov,  going  up  to  him  after  the  dance ; 
'  the  daughter  of  the  house  does  nothing  but 
ask  questions  about  you.' 

'  Really  ? '  Lutchkov  responded  scornfully. 
1 86 


THF    DUELLIST 

'On  my  honour  I  And  you  know  she's 
extremely  nice-looking  ;  only  look  at  her.' 

'  Which  of  them  is  she  ? ' 

Kistcr  pointed  out  Masha. 

*  Ah,  not  bad.'     And  Lutchkov  yawned. 

'Cold-hearted  person  ! '  cried  Kister,  and  he 
ran  off  to  ask  another  girl  to  d9,nce. 

Avdey  Ivanovitch  was  extremely  delighted 
at  the  fact  Kister  had  mentioned  to  him, 
though  he  did  yawn,  and  even  yawned  loudly. 
To  arouse  curiosity  flattered  his  vanity  in- 
tensely :  love  he  despised — in  words — but 
inwardly  he  was  himself  aware  that  it  would 
be  a  hard  and  difficult  task  for  him  to  win 
love.  ...  A  hard  and  difficult  task  for  him  to 
win  love,  but  easy  and  simple  enough  to  wear 
a  mask  of  indifference,  of  silent  haughtiness. 
Avdey  Ivanovitch  was  unattractive  and  no 
longer  young ;  but  on  the  other  hand  he  en- 
joyed a  terrible  reputation — and  consequently 
he  had  every  right  to  pose.  He  was  used 
to  the  bitter,  unspoken  enjoyment  of  grim 
loneliness.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  women  ;  some  had 
even  tried  to  get  upon  more  friendly  terms 
with  him,  but  he  repelled  their  advances  with 
exasperated  obstinacy  ;  he  knew  that  sentiment 
was  not  in  his  line  (during  tender  interviews, 
avowals,  he  first  became  awkward  and  vulgar, 
and,  through  anger,  rude  to  the  point  of  gross- 
187 


THE   DUELLIST 

ness,  of  insult) ;  he  remembered  that  the  two 
or  three  women  with  whom  he  had  at  different 
times  been  on  a  friendly  footing  had  rapidly 
grown  cool  to  him  after  the  first  moment  of 
closer  intimacy,  and  had  of  their  own  impulse 
made  haste  to  get  away  from  him  .  .  .  and  so 
he  had  at  last  schooled  himself  to  remain  an 
enigma,  and  to  scorn  what  destiny  had  denied 
him.  .  .  .  This  is,  I  fancy,  the  only  sort  of  scorn 
people  in  general  do  feel.  No  sort  of  frank, 
spontaneous,  that  is  to  say  good,  demonstration 
of  passion  suited  Lutchkov  ;  he  was  bound  to 
keep  a  continual  check  on  himself,  even  when 
he  was  angry.  Kister  was  the  only  person 
who  was  not  disgusted  when  Lutchkov  broke 
into  laughter  ;  the  kind-hearted  German's 
eyes  shone  with  the  generous  delight  of 
sympathy,  when  he  read  Avdey  his  favourite 
passages  from  Schiller,  while  the  bully  would 
sit  facing  him  with  lowering  looks,  like  a  wolf. 
.  .  .  Kister  danced  till  he  was  worn  out,  Lutch- 
kov never  left  his  corner,  scowled,  glanced 
stealthily  at  Masha,  and  meeting  her  eyes, 
at  once  threw  an  expression  of  indifference 
into  his  own.  Masha  danced  three  times  with 
Kister.  The  enthusiastic  youth  inspired  her 
with  confidence.  She  chatted  with  him  gaily 
enough,  but  at  heart  she  was  not  at  ease. 
Lutchkov  engrossed  her  thoughts. 

A    mazurka    tune  struck    up.     The   oflficers 
1 88 


THE   DUELLIST 

fell  to  bounding  up  and  down,  tapping  with 
their  heels,  and  tossing  the  epaulettes  on  their 
shoulders  ;  the  civilians  tapped  with  their  heels 
too.  Lutchkov  still  did  not  stir  from  his 
place,  and  slowly  followed  the  couples  with  his 
eyes,  as  they  whirled  by.  Some  one  touched 
his  sleeve  ...  he  looked  round  ;  his  neighbour 
pointed  him  out  Masha.  She  was  standing 
before  him  with  downcast  eyes,  holding  out  her 
hand  to  him.  Lutchkov  for  the  first  moment 
gazed  at  her  in  perplexity,  then  he  carelessly 
took  off  his  sword,  threw  his  hat  on  the  floor, 
picked  his  way  awkwardly  among  the  arm- 
chairs, took  Masha  by  the  hand,  and  went 
round  the  circle,  with  no  capering  up  and 
down  nor  stamping,  as  it  were  unwillingly 
performing  an  unpleasant  duty.  .  .  .  Masha's 
heart  beat  violently. 

'Why  don't  you  dance?'  she  asked  him  at 
last. 

'  I  don't  care  for  it,'  answered  Lutchkov. 
'  Where's  your  place  ?  * 

'  Over  there.' 

Lutchkov  conducted  Masha  to  her  chair, 
coolly  bowed  to  her  and  coolly  returned  to  his 
corner  .  .  .  but  there  was  an  agreeable  stirring 
of  the  spleen  within  him. 

Kister  asked  Masha  for  a  dance. 

*  What  a  strange  person  your  friend  is  ! ' 

*  He   does  interest  you    .   .    .'  said    Fyodor 

189 


THE   DUELLIST 

Fedoritch,  with  a  sly  twinkle  of  his  blue  and 
kindly  eyes. 

'Yes  ...  he  must  be  very  unhappy.' 

*  He  unhappy?  What  makes  you  suppose 
so  ? '     And  Fyodor  Fedoritch  laughed. 

'  You  don't  know  .  .  .  you  don't  know  .  .  .' 
Masha  solemnly  shook  her  head  with  an  im- 
portant air. 

'Me  not  know?     How's  that  ?'..  . 

Masha  shook  her  head  again  and  glanced 
towards  Lutchkov.  Avdey  Ivanovitch  noticed 
the  glance,  shrugged  his  shoulders  impercep- 
tibly, and  walked  away  into  the  other  room. 


Ill 


Several  months  had  passed  since  that  even- 
ing. Lutchkov  had  not  once  been  at  the 
Perekatovs'.  But  Kister  visited  them  pretty 
often.  Nenila  Makarievna  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  him,  but  it  was  not  she  that  attracted  Fyodor 
Fedoritch.  He  liked  Masha.  Being  an  in- 
experienced person  who  had  not  yet  talked 
himself  out,  he  derived  great  pleasure  from 
the  interchange  of  ideas  and  feelings,  and  he 
had  a  simple-hearted  faith  in  the  possibility 
of  a  calm  and  exalted  friendship  between  a 
young  man  and  a  young  girl. 
190 


THE   DUELLIST 

One  day  his  three  well-fed  and  skittish 
horses  whirled  him  rapidly  along  to  Mr. 
Perekatov's  house.  It  was  a  summer  day, 
close  and  sultry.  Not  a  cloud  anywhere. 
The  blue  of  the  sky  was  so  thick  and  dark  on 
the  horizon  that  the  eye  mistook  it  for  storm- 
cloud.  The  house  Mr.  Perekatov  had  erected 
for  a  summer  residence  had  been,  with  the 
foresight  usual  in  the  steppes,  built  with  every 
window  directly  facing  the  sun.  Nenila 
Makarievna  had  every  shutter  closed  from 
early  morning.  Kister  walked  into  the  cool, 
half-dark  drawing-room.  The  light  lay  in 
long  lines  on  the  floor  and  in  short,  close 
streaks  on  the  walls.  The  Perekatov  family 
gave  Fyodor  Fedoritch  a  friendly  reception. 
After  dinner  Nenila  Makarievna  went  away 
to  her  own  room  to  lie  down  ;  Mr.  Perekatov 
settled  himself  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  Masha  sat  near  the  window  at  her 
embroidery  frame,  Kister  facing  her.  Masha, 
without  opening  her  frame,  leaned  lightly  over 
it,  with  her  head  in  her  hands.  Kister  began 
telling  her  something;  she  listened  inatten- 
tively, as  though  waiting  for  something,  looked 
from  time  to  time  towards  her  father,  and  all 
at  once  stretched  out  her  hand. 

'  Listen,  Fyodor  Fedoritch  .  .  .  only  speak 
a  little  more  softly  .  .  .  papa  's  asleep.' 

Mr.  Perekatov  had  indeed  as  usual  dropped 
191 


THE  DUELLIST 

asleep  on  the  sofa,  with  his  head  hanging  and 
his  mouth  a  little  open. 

'What  is  it?'  Kister  inquired  with  curiosity. 

'You  will  laugh  at  me.' 

'  Oh,  no,  really  !  .  .  .' 

Masha  let  her  head  sink  till  only  the  upper 
part  of  her  face  remained  uncovered  by  her 
hands  and  in  a  half  whisper,  not  without 
hesitation,  asked  Kister  why  it  was  he  never 
brought  Mr.  Lutchkov  with  him.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  Masha  had  mentioned  him  since 
the  ball.  .  .  .  Kister  did  not  speak.  Masha 
glanced  timorously  over  her  interlaced  fingers. 

'May  I  tell  you  frankly  what  I  think?' 
Kister  asked  her. 

'  Oh,  why  not  ?  of  course.' 

'  It  seems  to  me  that  Lutchkov  has  made  a 
great  impression  on  you.' 

'  No ! '  answered  Masha,  and  she  bent  over, 
as  though  wishing  to  examine  the  pattern 
more  closely ;  a  narrow  golden  streak  of  light 
lay  on  her  hair ;  *  no  .  .  .  but  .  .  .' 

'Well,  but?'  said  Kister,  smiling. 

'Well,  don't  you  see,'  said  Masha,  and  she 
suddenly  lifted  her  head,  so  that  the  streak 
of  light  fell  straight  in  her  eyes ;  '  don  't  you 
see  .  .  .  he  .  .  .' 

'  He  interests  you.  .  .  . 

'Well  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .'  Masha  said  slowly; 
she  flushed  a  little,  turned   her  head  a  little 

IQ2 


THE    DUELLIST 

away  and  in  that  position  went  on  talking. 
'There  is  something  about  hinn  so  .  .  .  There, 
you  're  laughing  at  me,'  she  added  suddenly, 
glancing  swiftly  at  Fyodor  Fedoritch. 

Fyodor  Fedoritch  smiled  the  gentlest  smile 
imaginable. 

'  I  tell  you  everything,  whatever  comes  into 
my  head,'  Masha  went  on  :  '  I  know  that  you 
are  a  very "...  (she  nearly  said  great)  '  good 
friend  of  mine.' 

Kister  bowed.  Masha  ceased  speaking,  and 
shyly  held  out  her  hand  to  him ;  Fyodor 
Fedoritch  pressed  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
respectfully. 

'  He  must  be  a  very  queer  person ! '  ob- 
served Masha,  and  again  she  propped  her 
elbows  on  the  frame. 

'Queer?' 

*  Of  course  ;  he  interests  me  just  because  he 
is  queer!'  Masha  added  slily. 

'  Lutchkov  is  a  noble,  a  remarkable  man,' 
Kister  rejoined  solemnly.  '  They  don't  know 
him  in  our  regiment,  they  don't  appreciate 
him,  they  only  see  his  external  side.  He's 
embittered,  of  course,  and  strange  and  im- 
patient, but  his  heart  is  good.' 

Masha  listened  greedily  to  Fyodor  Fedo- 
ritch. 

'  I  will  bring  him  to  see  you,  I  '11  tell  him 
there's   no   need    to   be   afraid    of   you,   that 

N  193 


THE   DUELLIST 

it's  absurd  for  him  to  be  so  shy  ...  I '11  tell 
him  .  .  .  Oh !  yes,  I  know  what  to  say  .  .  . 
Only  you  mustn't  suppose,  though,  that  I 
would  .  .  .'  (Kister  was  embarrassed,  Masha 
too  was  embarrassed.)  .  .  '  Besides,  after  all, 
of  course  you  only  .  .  ,  like  him.  .  .  .' 

'  Of  course,  just  as  I  like  lots  of  people.' 

Kister  looked  mischievously  at  her. 

'  All  right,  all  right,'  he  said  with  a  satisfied 
air;  *  I  '11  bring  him  to  you.  .  .  .* 

'Oh,  no.  .  .  .' 

'  All  right,  I  tell  you  it  will  be  all  right.  .  .  . 
I  '11  arrange  everything.' 

'  You  are  so  .  .  .'  Masha  began  with  a  smile, 
and  she  shook  her  finger  at  him.  Mr.  Perekatov 
yawned  and  opened  his  eyes. 

'  Why,  I  almost  think  I  've  been  asleep,'  he 
muttered  with  surprise.  This  doubt  and  this 
surprise  were  repeated  daily,  Masha  and 
Kister  began  discussing  Schiller. 

Fyodor  Fedoritch  was  not  however  quite  at 
ease;  he  felt  something  like  a  stir  of  envy  within 
him  .  .  .  and  was  generously  indignant  with  him- 
self Nenila  Makarievna  came  down  into  the 
drawing-room.  Tea  was  brought  in.  Mr. 
Perekatov  made  his  dog  jump  several  times 
over  a  stick,  and  then  explained  he  had  taught 
it  everything  himself,  while  the  dog  wagged  its 
tail  deferentially,  licked  itself  and  blinked. 
When  at  last  the  great  heat  began  to  lessen, 
194 


THE   DUELLIST 

and  an  evening  breeze  blew  up,  the  whole 
family  went  out  for  a  walk  in  the  birch  copse. 
Fyodor  Fedoritch  was  continually  glancing  at 
Masha,  as  though  giving  her  to  understand 
that  he  would  carry  out  her  behests  ;  Masha 
felt  at  once  vexed  with  herself,  and  happy  and 
uncomfortable.  Kister  suddenly,  apropos  of 
nothing,  plunged  into  a  rather  high-flown 
discourse  upon  love  in  the  abstract,  and  upon 
friendship  . . .  but  catching  Nenila  Makarievna's 
bright  and  vigilant  eye  he,  as  abruptly,  changed 
the  subject.  The  sunset  was  brilliant  and  glow- 
ing. A  broad,  level  meadow  lay  outstretched 
before  the  birch  copse.  Masha  took  it  into 
her  head  to  start  a  game  of 'catch-catch.'  Maid- 
servants and  footmen  came  out ;  Mr.  Perekatov 
stood  with  his  wife,  Kister  with  Masha.  The 
maids  ran  with  deferential  little  shrieks  ;  Mr. 
Perekatov's  valet  had  the  temerity  to  separate 
Nenila  Makarievna  from  her  spouse  ;  one  of 
the  servant-girls  respectfully  paired  off  with 
her  master  ;  Fyodor  Fedoritch  was  not  parted 
from  Masha.  Every  time  as  he  regained  his 
place,  he  said  two  or  three  words  to  her; 
Masha,  all  flushed  with  running,  listened  to 
him  with  a  smile,  passing  her  hand  over  her 
hair.     After  supper,  Kister  took  leave. 

It  was  a  still,  starlight  night.     Kister  took 
off  his   cap.     He  was   excited  ;    there  was  a 
lump   in    his   throat.     *  Yes,'   he   said   at  last, 
195 


THE  DUELLIST 

almost  aloud;  'she  loves  him;  I  will  bring 
them  together  ;  I  will  justify  her  confidence  in 
me.'  Though  there  was  as  yet  nothing  to 
prove  a  definite  passion  for  Lutchkov  on 
Masha's  part,  though,  according  to  her  own 
account,  he  only  excited  her  curiosity,  Kister 
had  by  this  time  made  up  a  complete  romance, 
and  worked  out  his  own  duty  in  the  matter. 
He  resolved  to  sacrifice  his  feelings — the  more 
readily  as  '  so  far  I  have  no  other  sentiment 
for  her  but  sincere  devotion,'  thought  he. 
Kister  really  was  capable  of  sacrificing  himself 
to  friendship,  to  a  recognised  duty.  He  had 
read  a  great  deal,  and  so  fancied  himself  a 
person  of  experience  and  even  of  penetration  ; 
he  had  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  his  supposi- 
tions ;  he  did  not  suspect  that  life  is  endlessly 
varied,  and  never  repeats  itself  Little  by 
little,  Fyodor  Fedoritch  worked  himself  into  a 
state  of  ecstasy.  He  began  musing  with 
emotion  on  his  mission.  To  be  the  mediator 
between  a  shy,  loving  girl  and  a  man  possibly 
embittered  only  because  he  had  never  once 
in  his  life  loved  and  been  loved  ;  to  bring 
them  together ;  to  reveal  their  own  feelings  to 
them,  and  then  to  withdraw,  letting  no  one 
know  the  greatness  of  his  sacrifice,  what  a 
splendid  feat!  In  spite  of  the  coolness  of 
the  night,  the  simple-hearted   dreamer's  face 

burned.  .  . 

196 


THE   DUELLIST 

Next  day  he  went  round  to  Lutchkov  early 
in  the  morning. 

Avdey  Ivanovitch  was,  as  usual,  lying  on 
the  sofa,  smoking  a  pipe.  Kister  greeted 
him. 

*  I  was  at  the  Perekatovs  yesterday,'  he  said 
with  some  solemnity. 

'  Ah  ! '  Lutchkov  responded  indifferently,  and 
he  yawned, 

'  Yes.     They  are  splendid  people.' 

'Really?' 

'  We  talked  about  you.' 

'  Much  obliged ;  with  which  of  them  was 
that  ? ' 

'  With  the  old  people  .  .  .  and  the  daughter 
too.' 

'Ah!  that  .  .  .  little  fat  thing?' 

'She's  a  splendid  girl,  Lutchkov.' 

'To  be  sure,  they  're  all  splendid.' 

'  No,  Lutchkov,  you  don't  know  her.  I  have 
never  met  such  a  clever,  sweet  and  sensitive 
girl.' 

Lutchkov  began  humming  through  his  nose : 

'  In  the  Hamburg  Gazette, 
You  've  read,  I  dare  say. 
How  the  year  before  last, 
Munich  gained  the  day.  .  .  .' 

'  But  I  assure  you.  .  .  .' 

*  You  're  in  love  with  her,  Fedya,'  Lutchkov 
remarked  sarcastically. 

197 


THE   DUELLIST 

*  Not  at  all.     I  never  even  thought  of  it.' 
'  Fedya,  you  're  in  love  with  her  ! ' 

*  What  nonsense  !     As  if  one  couldn't  .  .  .* 

'  You  're  in  love  with  her,  friend  of  my  heart, 
beetle  on  my  hearth,'  Avdey  Ivanovitch  chanted 
drawling. 

'Ah,  Avdey,  you  really  ought  to  be 
ashamed  ! '  Kister  said  with  vexation. 

With  any  one  else  Lutchkov  would  thereupon 
have  kept  on  more  than  before ;  Kister  he  did 
not  teaze.  '  Well,  well,  sprechen  Sie  deutsch, 
Ivan  Andreitch,'  he  muttered  in  an  undertone, 
'  don't  be  angry.' 

*  Listen,  Avdey,'  Kister  began  warmly,  and 
he  sat  down  beside  him.  '  You  know  I  care 
for  you.'  (Lutchkov  made  a  wry  face.)  '  But 
there's  one  thing,  I  '11  own,  I  don't  like  about 
you  ...  it's  just  that  you  won't  make  friends 
with  any  one,  that  you  will  stick  at  home,  and 
refuse  all  intercourse  with  nice  people.  Why, 
there  are  nice  people  in  the  world,  hang  it  all ! 
Suppose  you  have  been  deceived  in  life,  have 
been  embittered,  what  of  it;  there's  no  need 
to  rush  into  people's  arms,  of  course,  but  why 
turn  your  back  on  everybody .-'  Why,  you  '11 
cast  me  off  some  day,  at  that  rate,  I  suppose.' 

Lutchkov  went  on  smoking  coolly. 

'That's  how  it  is  no  one  knows  you  .  .  . 
except  me  ;  goodness  knows  what  some  people 
think  of  you  .  .  .  Avdey ! '  added  Kister  after 
198 


THE   DUELLIST 

a  brief  silence;  'do  you  disbelieve  in  virtue, 
Avdey  ? ' 

'  Disbelieve  ,  no,  I  believe  in  it,'  .  ,  . 
muttered  Lutchkov. 

Kister  pressed  his  hand  feelingly. 

*  I  want,'  he  went  on  in  a  voice  full  of 
emotion,  *  to  reconcile  you  with  life.  You  will 
grow  happier,  blossom  out  .  .  .  yes,  blossom 
out.  How  I  shall  rejoice  then !  Only  you 
must  let  me  dispose  of  you  now  and  then,  of 
your  time.  To-day  it's — what?  Monday  .  .  . 
to-morrow's  Tuesday  ...  on  Wednesday,  yes, 
on  Wednesday  we'll  go  together  to  the  Pereka- 
tovs'.  They  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you  .  ,  . 
and  we  shall  have  such  a  jolly  time  there  .  .  . 
and  now  let  me  have  a  pipe.' 

Avdey  Ivanuvitch  lay  without  budging  on 
the  sofa,  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Kister  lighted 
a  pipe,  went  to  the  window,  and  began  drum- 
ming on  the  panes  with  his  fingers. 

'  So  they  've  been  talking  about  me  ? '  Avdey 
asked  suddenly. 

'  They  have,'  Kister  responded  with  meaning. 

'What  did  they  say?' 

*  Oh,  they  talked.  There 're  very  anxious  to 
make  your  acquaintance.' 

'Which  of  them's  that?' 

*  I  say,  what  curiosity  ! ' 

Avdey  called  his  servant,  and  ordered  his 
horse  to  be  saddled. 

199 


THE   DUELLIST 

'  Where  are  you  off  to  ? ' 

'  The  riding-school.' 

'Well,  good-bye.  So  we're  going  to  the 
Perekatovs',  eh  ? ' 

*  All  right,  if  you  like,'  Lutchkov  said  lazily, 
stretching. 

'  Bravo,  old  man  ! '  cried  Kister,  and  he  went 
out  into  the  street,  pondered,  and  sighed  deeply. 


IV 


Masha  was  just  approaching  the  drawing- 
room  door  when  the  arrival  of  Kister  and 
Lutchkov  was  announced.  She  promptly  re- 
turned to  her  own  room,  and  went  up  to  the 
looking-glass.  .  ,  .  Her  heart  was  throbbing 
violently.  A  girl  came  to  summon  her  to  the 
drawing-room.  Masha  drank  a  little  water, 
stopped  twice  on  the  stairs,  and  at  last  went 
down.  Mr.  Perekatov  was  not  at  home. 
Nenila  Makarievna  was  sitting  on  the  sofa ; 
Lutchkov  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair,  wearing 
his  uniform,  with  his  hat  on  his  knees ;  Kister 
was  near  him.  They  both  got  up  on  Masha's 
entrance — Kister  with  his  usual  friendly  smile, 
Lutchkov  with  a  solemn  and  constrained  air. 
She  bowed  to  them  in  confusion,  and  went  up 
to  her  mother.  The  first  ten  minutes  passed 
off  favourably.     Masha  recovered  herself,  and 


THE   DUELLIST 

gradually  began  to  watch  Lutchkov.  To  the 
questions  addressed  to  him  by  the  lady  of  the 
house,  he  answered  briefly,  but  uneasily ;  he 
was  shy,  like  all  egoistic  people.  Nenila  Maka- 
ricvna  suggested  a  stroll  in  the  garden  to 
her  guests,  but  did  not  herself  go  beyond  the 
balcony.  She  did  not  consider  it  essential 
never  to  lose  sight  of  her  daughter,  and  to  be 
constantly  hobbling  after  her  with  a  fat  reticule 
in  her  hands,  after  the  fashion  of  many  mothers 
in  the  steppes.  The  stroll  lasted  rather  a  long 
while.  Masha  talked  more  with  Kister,  but 
did  not  dare  to  look  either  at  him  or  at 
Lutchkov.  Avdey  Ivanovitch  did  not  address 
a  remark  to  her ;  Kister's  voice  showed  agita- 
tion. He  laughed  and  chattered  a  little  over- 
much. .  .  .  They  reached  the  stream.  A 
couple  of  yards  or  so  from  the  bank  there  was 
a  water-lily,  which  seemed  to  rest  on  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  water,  encircled  by  its  broad, 
round  leaves. 

'What  a  beautiful  flower!'  observed  Masha. 

She  had  hardly  uttered  these  words  when 
Lutchkov  pulled  out  his  sword,  clutched  with 
one  hand  at  the  frail  twigs  of  a  willow,  and, 
bending  his  whole  body  over  the  water,  cut  off 
the  head  of  the  flower.  '  It 's  deep  here,  take 
care!'  Masha  cried  in  terror.  Lutchkov  with 
the  tip  of  his  sword  brought  the  flower  to  the 
bank,  at  her  very  feet.     She  bent  down,  picked 


THE   DUELLIST 

up  the  (lower,  and  gazed  with  tender,  delighted 
amazement  at  Avdey.  '  Bravo  ! '  cried  Kister. 
'  And  I  can't  swim  .  .  ,'  Lutchkov  observed 
abruptly.  Masha  did  not  like  that  remark. 
'  What  made  him  say  that  ? '  she  wondered. 

Lutchkov  and  Kister  remained  at  Mr.  Pere- 
katov's  till  the  evening.  Something  new  and 
unknown  was  passing  in  Masha's  soul ;  a  dreamy 
perplexity  was  reflected  more  than  once  in  her 
face.  She  moved  somehow  more  slowly,  she 
did  not  flush  on  meeting  her  mother's  eyes — 
on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to  seek  them,  as 
though  she  would  question  her.  During  the 
whole  evening,  Lutchkov  paid  her  a  sort  of 
awkward  attention  ;  but  even  this  awkward- 
ness gratified  her  innocent  vanity.  When  they 
had  both  taken  leave,  with  a  promise  to  come 
again  in  a  few  days,  she  quietly  went  off  to  her 
own  room,  and  for  a  long  while,  as  it  were,  in 
bewilderment  she  looked  about  her.  Nenila 
Makarievna  came  to  her,  kissed  and  embraced 
her  as  usual.  Masha  opened  her  lips,  tried  to 
say  something — and  did  not  utter  a  word.  She 
wanted  to  confess — she  did  not  know  what. 
Her  soul  was  gently  wandering  in  dreams. 
On  the  little  table  by  her  bedside  the  flower 
Lutchkov  had  picked  lay  in  water  in  a  clean 
glass.  Masha,  already  in  bed,  sat  up  cautiously, 
leaned  on  her  elbow,  and  her  maiden  lips  softly 
touched  the  fresh  white  petals.  .  .  . 
202 


THE   DUELLIST 

'  Well,'  Kistcr  questioned  his  friend  next 
day,'  do  you  like  the  Perekatovs?  Was  I 
right?  eh?     Tell  me.' 

Lutchkov  did  not  answer. 

*  No,  do  tell  me,  do  tell  me  I' 

*  Really,  I  don't  know.' 

*  Nonsense,  come  now  ! ' 

*  That  .  .  .  what 's  her  name  .  .  .  Mashenka  's 
all  right ;  not  bad-looking.' 

'  There,  you  see  .  .  .'  said  Kister — and  he 
said  no  more. 

Five  days  later  Lutchkov  of  his  own  accord 
suggested  that  they  should  call  on  the  Pere- 
katovs. 

Alone  he  would  not  have  gone  to  see  them  ; 
in  Fyodor  Fedoritch's  absence  he  would  have 
had  to  keep  up  a  conversation,  and  that  he 
could  not  do,  and  as  far  as  possible  avoided. 

On  the  second  visit  of  the  two  friends,  Masha 
was  much  more  at  her  ease.  She  was  by  now 
secretly  glad  that  she  had  not  disturbed  her 
mamma  by  an  uninvited  avowal.  Before 
dinner,  Avdey  had  offered  to  try  a  young  horse, 
not  yet  broken  in,  and,  in  spite  of  its  frantic  rear- 
ing, he  mastered  it  completely.  In  the  evening 
he  thawed,  and  fell  into  joking  and  laughing — - 
and  though  he  soon  pulled  himself  up,  yet  he 
had  succeeded  in  making  a  momentary  un- 
pleasant impression  on  Masha.  She  could  not 
yet  be  sure  herself  what  the  feeling  exactly 
203 


THE    DUELLIST 


was  that  Lutchkov  excited  in  her,  but  every- 
thing she  did  not  like  in  him  she  set  down  to 
the  influence  of  misfortune,  of  loneliness. 


The  friends  began  to  pay  frequent  visits  to 
the  Perekatovs'.  Kister's  position  became 
more  and  more  painful.  He  did  not  regret 
his  action  .  .  .  no,  but  he  desired  at  least  to  cut 
short  the  time  of  his  trial.  His  devotion  to 
Masha  increased  daily  ;  she  too  felt  warmly 
towards  him  ;  but  to  be  nothing  more  than  a 
go-between,  a  confidant,  a  friend  even — it 's  a 
dreary,  thankless  business !  Coldly  idealistic 
people  talk  a  great  deal  about  the  sacredness 
of  suffering,  the  bliss  of  suffering  .  .  .  but  to 
Kister's  warm  and  simple  heart  his  sufferings 
were  not  a  source  of  any  bliss  whatever.  At 
last,  one  day,  when  Lutchkov,  ready  dressed, 
came  to  fetch  him,  and  the  carriage  was  wait- 
ing at  the  steps,  Fyodor  Fedoritch,  to  the 
astonishment  of  his  friend,  announced  point- 
blank  that  he  should  stay  at  home.  Lutchkov 
entreated  him,  was  vexed  and  angry  .  .  . 
Kister  pleaded  a  headache.  Lutchkov  set  off 
alone. 

The   bully  had  changed    in   many  ways  of 
late.     He  left  his  comrades  in  peace,  did   not 
204 


THE    DUELLIST 

annoy  the  novices,  and  though  his  spirit  had 
not  '  blossomed  out,'  as  Kister  had  foretold, 
yet  he  certainly  had  toned  down  a  little.  He 
could  not  have  been  called  '  disillusioned ' 
before — he  had  seen  and  experienced  almost 
nothing — and  so  it  is  not  surprising  that  Masha 
engrossed  his  thoughts.  His  heart  was  not 
touched  though  ;  only  his  spleen  was  satisfied. 
Masha's  feelings  for  him  were  of  a  strange 
kind.  She  almost  never  looked  him  straight 
in  the  face  ;  she  could  not  talk  to  him.  .  .  . 
When  they  happened  to  be  left  alone  together, 
Masha  felt  horribly  awkward.  She  took  him 
for  an  exceptional  man,  and  felt  overawed  by 
him  and  agitated  in  his  presence,  fancied  she 
did  not  understand  him,  and  was  unworthy  of 
his  confidence  ;  miserably,  drearily — but  con 
tinually — she  thought  of  him.  Kister's  society, 
on  the  contrary,  soothed  her  and  put  her  in  a 
good  humour,  though  it  neither  overjoyed  nor 
excited  her.  With  him  she  could  chatter  away 
for  hours  together,  leaning  on  his  arm,  as 
though  he  were  her  brother,  looking  affec- 
tionately into  his  face,  and  laughing  with  his 
laughter — and  she  rarely  thought  of  him.  In 
Lutchkov  there  was  something  enigmatic  for 
the  young  girl ;  she  felt  that  his  soul  was 
'dark  as  a  forest,'  and  strained  every  effort  to 
penetrate  into  that  mysterious  gloom.  ...  So 
children  stare  a  long  while  into  a  deep  well, 
205 


THE  DUELLIST 

till  at  last  they  make  out  at  the  very  bottom 
the  still,  black  water. 

On  Lutchkov's  coming  into  the  drawing- 
room  alone,  Masha  was  at  first  scared  .  .  .  but 
then  she  felt  delighted.  She  had  more  than 
once  fancied  that  there  existed  some  sort  of 
misunderstanding  between  Lutchkov  and  her, 
that  he  had  not  hitherto  had  a  chance  of 
revealing  himself.  Lutchkov  mentioned  the 
cause  of  Kister's  absence  ;  the  parents  ex- 
pressed their  regret,  but  Masha  looked  incredu- 
lously at  Avdey,  and  felt  faint  with  expectation. 
After  dinner  they  were  left  alone  ;  Masha  did 
not  know  what  to  say,  she  sat  down  to  the  piano; 
her  fingers  flitted  hurriedly  and  tremblingly 
over  the  keys ;  she  was  continually  stopping 
and  waiting  for  the  first  word.  .  ,  .  Lutchkov 
did  not  understand  nor  care  for  music.  Masha 
began  talking  to  him  about  Rossini  (Rossini 
was  at  that  time  just  coming  into  fashion)  and 
about  Mozart.  .  .  ,  Avdey  Ivanovitch  responded: 
'Quite  so,'  'by  no  means,'  'beautiful,'  'in- 
deed,' and  that  was  all.  Masha  played  some 
brilliant  variations  on  one  of  Rossini's  airs. 
Lutchkov  listened  and  listened  .  .  .  and  when 
at  last  she  turned  to  him,  his  face  expressed 
such  unfeigned  boredom,  that  Masha  jumped 
up  at  once  and  closed  the  piano.  She  went 
up  to  the  window,  and  for  a  long  while  stared 
into  the  garden  ;  Lutchkov  did  not  stir  from 
206 


THE   DUELLIST 

his  seat,  and  still  remained  silent.  Impatience 
began  to  take  the  place  of  timidity  in  Masha's 
soul.  '  What  is  it  ? '  she  wondered,  '  won't  you 
.  .  .  or  can't  you?*  It  was  Lutchkov's  turn 
to  feel  shy.  He  was  conscious  again  of  his 
miserable,  overwhelming  diffidence  ;  already  he 
was  raging!  .  .  .  '  It  was  the  devil's  own  notion  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  wretched  girl,'  he 
muttered  to  himself.  .  .  .  And  all  the  while 
how  easy  it  was  to  touch  Masha's  heart  at  that 
instant !  Whatever  had  been  said  by  such  an 
extraordinary  though  eccentric  man,  as  she 
imagined  Lutchkov,  she  would  have  under- 
stood everything,  have  excused  anything,  have 
believed  anything.  .  .  .  But  this  burdensome, 
stupid  silence  !  Tears  of  vexation  were  stand- 
ing in  her  eyes,  *  If  he  doesn't  want  to  be  open, 
if  I  am  really  not  worthy  of  his  confidence,  why 
does  he  go  on  coming  to  see  us?  Or  perhaps 
it  is  that  I  don't  set  the  right  way  to  work  to 
make  him  reveal  himself?  '  .  .  .  And  she  turned 
swiftly  round,  and  glanced  so  inquiringly,  so 
searchingly  at  him,  that  he  could  not  fail  to 
understand  her  glance,  and  could  not  keep 
silence  any  longer.  .  .  . 

'Marya  Sergievna,'  he  pronounced  falter- 
ingly ;  '  I  .  .  .  I've  .  .  .  I  ought  to  tell  you 
something.  .  .  .' 

*  Speak,'  Masha  responded  rapidly. 

Lutchkov  looked  round  him  irresolutely. 
207 


THE   DUELLIST 

*  I  can't  now.  .  .  .' 

'Why  not?' 

'  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  .  .  .  alone.  .  .  .* 

'  Why,  we  are  alone  now.' 

'  Yes  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  here  in  the  house.  .  .  .' 

M.isha  was  at  her  wits'  end.  .  .  .  '  If  I  refuse,' 
she  thought,  '  it 's  all  over.'  .  .  .  Curiosity  was 
the  ruin  of  Eve.  .  .  . 

'  I  agree,'  she  said  at  last. 

'When  then?     Where?' 

Masha's  breathing  came  quickly  and  un- 
evenly. 

'To-morrow  ...  in  the  evening.  You  know 
the  copse  above  the  Long  Meadow  ?  '  .  .  . 

'Behind  the  mill?' 

Masha  nodded. 

'What  time?' 

'Wait  .  .  .' 

She  could  not  bring  out  another  word  ;  her 
voice  broke  .  .  .  she  turned  pale  and  went 
quickly  out  of  the  room. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Perekatov, 
with  his  characteristic  politeness,  conducted 
Lutchkov  to  the  hall,  pressed  his  hand  feelingly, 
and  begged  him  'not  to  forget  them';  then, 
having  let  out  his  guest,  he  observed  with 
dignity  to  the  footman  that  it  would  be  as 
well  for  him  to  shave,  and  without  awaiting  a 
reply,  returned  with  a  careworn  air  to  his  own 
room,  with  the  same  careworn  air  sat  down  on 
208 


THE   DUELLIST 

the  sofa,  and  guilelessly  dropped  asleep  on  the 
spot. 

'You  're  a  little  pale  to-day,'  Nenila  Makari- 
evna  said  to  her  daughter,  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day.     *  Are  you  quite  well  ? ' 

'  Yes,  mamma.' 

Nenila  Makarievna  set  straight  the  kerchief 
on  the  girl's  neck. 

'  You  are  very  pale  ;  look  at  me,'  she  went  on, 
with  that  motherly  solicitude  in  which  there 
is  none  the  less  audible  a  note  of  parental 
authority :  '  there,  now,  your  eyes  look  heavy 
too.     You  're  not  well,  Masha.' 

'  My  head  does  ache  a  little,'  said  Masha,  to 
find  some  way  of  escape. 

*  There,  I  knew  it.'  Nenila  Makarievna  put 
some  scent  on  Masha's  forehead.  '  You  're  not 
feverish,  though.' 

Masha  stooped  down,  and  picked  a  thread  off 
the  floor. 

Nenila  Makarievna's  arms  lay  softly  round 
Masha's  slender  waist. 

'  It  seems  to  me  you  have  something  you 
want  to  tell  me,'  she  said  caressingly,  not 
loosing  her  hands. 

Masha  shuddered  inwardly. 

'  I  ?     Oh,  no,  mamma.' 

Masha's  momentary  confusion  did  not 
escape  her  mother's  attention. 

•Oh,  yes,  you  do.  .  .  .  Think  a  little.' 
o  209 


THE  DUELLIST 

But  Masha  had  had  time  to  regain  her  self- 
possession,  and  instead  of  answering,  she  kissed 
her  mother's  hand  with  a  laugh. 

*  And  so  you've  nothing  to  tell  me?' 

*  No,  really,  nothing.' 

'  I  believe  you,'  responded  Nenila  Makari- 
evna,  after  a  short  silence.  '  I  know  you  keep 
nothing  secret  from  me.  .  .  .  That's  true,  isn't 
it?' 

'  Of  course,  mamma.' 

Masha  could  not  help  blushing  a  little, 
though. 

'You  do  quite  rightly.  It  would  be  wrong 
of  you  to  keep  anything  from  me.  .  .  .  You 
know  how  I  love  you,  Masha.' 

•Oh  yes,  mamma.' 

And  Masha  hugged  her. 

'There,  there,  that's  enough.'  (Nenila 
Makarievna  walked  about  the  room.)  '  Oh 
tell  me,'  she  went  on  in  the  voice  of  one  who 
feels  that  the  question  asked  is  of  no  special 
importance ;  '  what  were  you  talking  about 
with  Avdey  Ivanovitch  to-day?' 

'  With  Avdey  Ivanovitch  ? '  Masha  repeated 
serenely.     '  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .' 

'  Do  you  like  him  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  like  him.' 

'Do  you  remember  how  anxious  you  were 
to  get  to  know  him,  how  excited  you  were?' 

Masha  turned  away  and  laughed. 

2IO 


THE   DUELLIST 

•  What  a  strange  person  he  is ! '  Nenila 
Makaricvna  observed  good-humouredly. 

Masha  felt  an  inch'nation  to  defend  Lutch- 
kov,  but  she  held  her  tongue. 

'  Yes,  of  course,'  she  said  rather  carelessly  ; 
•he  is  a  queer  fish,  but  still  he's  a  nice 
nan  ! ' 

'  Oh,  yes  I  . .  Why  didn't  Fyodor  Fedoritch 
come?' 

'  He  was  unwell,  I  suppose.  Ah !  by  the 
way,  Fyodor  Fedoritch  wanted  to  make  me 
a  present  of  a  puppy.  .  .  .  Will  you  let  me?' 

'  What  ?     Accept  his  present  ? ' 

♦Yes.' 

*  Of  course.' 

*Oh,  thank  you!'  said  Masha,  '  thank  you, 
thank  you ! ' 

Nenila  Makarievna  got  as  far  as  the  door 
and  suddenly  turned  back  again. 

'  Do  you  remember  your  promise,  Masha  ?* 

'  What  promise  ? ' 

'  You  were  going  to  tell  me  when  you  fall  in 
love.' 

'  I  remember.' 

'  Well  .  .  .  hasn't  the  time  come  yet  ? '  (Masha 
laughed  musically.)     '  Look  into  my  eyes.' 

Masha  looked  brightly  and  boldly  at  her 
mother. 

'  It  can't  be ! '  thought  Nenila  Makarievna, 
and    she    felt    reassured.      '  As   if  she    could 

211 


THE   DUELLIST 


deceive  me!  .  .  .  How  could   I  think  of  such 
a  thing !  .  .  .  She 's  still  a  perfect  baby.  .  .  .' 

She  went  away.  .  .  . 

•  But  this  is  really  wicked,'  thought  Masha. 


VI 


KiSTER  had  already  gone  to  bed  when 
Lutchkov  came  into  his  room.  The  bully's 
face  never  expressed  one  feeling ;  so  it  was 
now :  feigned  indifference,  coarse  delight,  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  superiority  ...  a  num- 
ber of  different  emotions  were  playing  over 
his  features. 

'  Well,  how  was  it  ?  how  was  it  ? '  Kister 
made  haste  to  question  him. 

'  Oh  !  I  went.     They  sent  you  greetings.' 

'Well?     Are  they  all  well?' 

*  Of  course,  why  not?' 

*  Did  they  ask  why  I  didn't  come  ?* 

*  Yes,  I  think  so.' 

Lutchkov  stared  at  the  ceiling  and  hummed 
out  of  tune.     Kister  looked  down  and  mused. 

'  But,  look  here,'  Lutchkov  brought  out  in 
a  husky,  jarring  voice,  'you  're  a  clever  fellow, 
I  dare  say,  you  're  a  cultured  fellow,  but  you're 
a  good  bit  out  in  your  ideas  sometimes  for  all 
that,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so.' 

'  How  do  you  mean  ? ' 

212 


THE   DUELLIST 

*  Why,  look  here.  About  women,  for  instance. 
How  you  're  always  cracking  them  up  !  You  're 
never  tired  of  singing  their  praises  !  To  listen 
to  you,  they  're  all  angels.  .  .  .  Nice  sort  of 
angels ! ' 

'  I  like  and  respect  women,  but ' 

'Oh,  of  course,  of  course,'  Avdey  cut  him 

short.     '  I   am    not  going  to   argue  with   you. 

That 's  quite  beyond  me  !     I  'm  a  plain  man.' 

*  I  was  going  to  say  that  .  .  .  But  why  just 
to-day  .  .  .  just  now,  ,  ,  .  are  you  talking 
about  women  ?' 

'Oh,  nothing!'  Avdey  smiled  with  great 
meaning.     '  Nothing  ! ' 

Kistcr  looked  searchingly  at  his  friend. 
He  imagined  (simple  heart !)  that  Masha  had 
been  treating  him  badly  ;  had  been  torturing 
him,  perhaps,  as  only  women  can.  .  .  . 

'  You  are  feeling  hurt,  my  poor  Avdey  ;  tell 
me  .  .  .' 

Lutchkov  went  off  into  a  chuckle. 

'  Oh,  well,  I  don't  fancy  I  've  much  to  feel 
hurt  about,'  he  said,  in  a  drawling  tone,  com- 
placently stroking  his  moustaches.  '  No,  only, 
look  here,  Fedya,'  he  went  on  with  the  manner 
of  a  preceptor,  '  I  was  only  going  to  point  out 
that  you  're  altogether  out  of  it  about  women, 
my  lad.  You  believe  me,  Fedya,  they  're  all 
alike.  One  's  only  got  to  take  a  little  trouble, 
hang  about  them  a  bit,  and  you  've  got  things 
213 


THE  DUELLIST 

in  your  own  hands.  Look  at  Masha  Perekatov 
now.  .  ,  .' 

*Oh!' 

Lutchkov  tapped  his  foot  on  the  floor  and 
shook  his  head. 

'  Is  there  anything  so  specially  attractive 
about  me,  hey?  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
there  was  anything.  There  isn't  anything,  is 
there?  And  here,  I've  a  clandestine  appoint- 
ment for  to-morrow.' 

Kister  sat  up,  leaned  on  his  elbow,  and 
stared  in  amazement  at  Lutchkov. 

'For  the  evening,  in  a  wood  .  .  .'  Avdey  Ivano- 
vitch  continued  serenely.  'Onlydon't  yougo  and 
imagine  it  means  much.  It 's  only  a  bit  of  fun. 
It's  slow  here,  don't  you  know.  A  pretty  little 
girl,  .  .  .  well,  says  I,  why  not?  Marriage,  of 
course,  I  'm  not  going  in  for  .  .  .  but  there, 
I  like  to  recall  my  young  days.  I  don't  care 
for  hanging  about  petticoats — but  I  may  as 
well  humour  the  baggage.  We  can  listen  to 
the  nightingales  together.  Of  course,  it's 
really  more  in  your  line  ;  but  the  wench  has 
no  eyes,  you  see.  I  should  have  thought  I 
wasn't  worth  looking  at  beside  you.' 

Lutchkov  talked  on  a  long  while.  But 
Kister  did  not  hear  him.  His  head  was  going 
round.  He  turned  pale  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face.  Lutchkov  swayed  up  and 
down  in  his  low  chair,  screwed  up  his  eyes, 
214 


THE   DUELLIST 

stretched,  and  putting  down  Kistcr's  emotion 
to  jealousy,  was  almost  gasping  with  delight. 
But  it  was  not  jealousy  that  was  torturing 
Kister ;  he  was  wounded,  not  by  the  fact 
itself,  but  by  Avdey's  coarse  carelessness,  his 
indifferent  and  contemptuous  references  to 
Masha.  He  was  still  staring  intently  at  the 
bully,  and  it  seemed  as  if  for  the  first  time 
he  was  thoroughly  seeing  his  face.  vSo  this 
it  was  he  had  been  scheming  for !  This  for 
which  he  had  sacrificed  his  own  inclinations ! 
Here  it  was,  the  blessed  influence  of  love. 

'  Avdey  ...  do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't 
care  for  her?'  he  muttered  at  last. 

•O  innocence!  O  Arcadia!'  responded 
Avdey,  with  a  malignant  chuckle. 

Kister  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart  did  not 
give  in  even  then  ;  perhaps,  thought  he,  Avdey 
is  in  a  bad  temper  and  is  'humbugging'  from 
old  habit  ...  he  has  not  yet  found  a  new 
language  to  express  new  feelings.  And  was 
there  not  in  himself  some  other  feeling  lurking 
under  his  indignation?  Did  not  Lutchkov's 
avowal  strike  him  so  unpleasantly  simply 
because  it  concerned  Masha  ?  How  could  one 
tell,  perhaps  Lutchkov  really  was  in  love  with 
her.  .  .  .  Oh,  no !  no !  a  thousand  times  no ! 
That  man  in  love?  .  .  .  That  man  was  loath- 
some with  his  bilious,  yellow  face,  his  nervous, 
cat-like  movements,  crowing  with  conceit  .  .  . 

215 


THE   DUELLIST 

loathsome !  No,  not  in  such  words  would 
Kister  have  uttered  to  a  devoted  friend  the 
secret  of  his  love.  ...  In  overflowing  happi- 
ness, in  dumb  rapture,  with  bright,  blissful 
tears  in  his  eyes  would  he  have  flung  himself 
on  his  bosom.  .  .  . 

'Well,  old  man,'  queried  Avdey,  'own  up 
now  you  didn't  expect  it,  and  now  you  feel 
put  out.  Eh?  jealous?  Own  up,  Fedya.  Eh? 
eh?' 

Kister  was  about  to  speak  out,  but  he  turned 
with  his  face  to  the  wall.  '  Speak  openly  .  .  . 
to  him?  Not  for  anything ! '  he  whispered  to 
himself.  '  He  wouldn't  understand  me  ...  so 
be  it !  He  supposes  none  but  evil  feelings  in 
me — so  be  it !  .  .  .' 

Avdey  got  up. 

'  I  see  you  're  sleepy,'  he  said  with  assumed 
sympathy :  '  I  don't  want  to  be  in  your  way. 
Pleasant  dreams,  my  boy  ,  .  .  pleasant  dreams  ! ' 

And  Lutchkov  went  away,  very  well  satisfied 
with  himself. 

Kister  could  not  get  to  sleep  before  the 
morning.  With  feverish  persistence  he  turned 
over  and  over  and  thought  over  and  over  the 
same  single  idea  —  an  occupation  only  too 
well  known  to  unhappy  lovers. 

'  Even  if  Lutchkov  doesn't  care  for  her,'  he 
mused,  'if  she  has  flung  herself  at  his  head, 
anyway  he  ought  not  even  with  me,  with  his 
216 


THE   DUFLLIST 

friend,  to  speak  so  disrespectfully,  so  offensively 
of  her!  In  what  way  is  she  to  blame?  How 
could  any  one  have  no  feeling  for  a  poor, 
inexperienced  girl? 

'  Hut  can  she  really  have  a  secret  appoint- 
ment with  him  ?  She  has — yes,  she  certainly 
has.  Avdey  's  not  a  liar,  he  never  tells  a  lie. 
But  perhaps  it  means  nothing,  a  mere 
freak.  .  .  . 

'But  she  does  not  know  him.  .  .  .  He  is 
capable,  I  dare  say,  of  insulting  her.  After 
to-day,  I  wouldn't  answer  for  anything.  .  .  . 
And  wasn't  it  I  myself  that  praised  him  up 
and  exalted  him  ?  Wasn't  it  I  who  excited  her 
curiosity?  .  .  .  But  who  could  have  known 
this  ?     Who  could  have  foreseen  it  ?  .  .  . 

*  Foreseen  what  ?  Has  he  so  long  ceased  to 
be  my  friend  ?  .  .  .  But,  after  all,  was  he  ever 
my  friend  ?  What  a  disenchantment !  What 
a  lesson ! ' 

All  the  past  turned  round  and  round  before 
Kister's  eyes.  *Yes,  I  did  like  him,' he  whis- 
pered at  last.  '  Why  has  my  liking  cooled  so 
suddenly?  .  .  .  And  do  I  dislike  him?  No, 
why  did  I  ever  like  him?     I  alone?' 

Kister's  loving  heart  had  attached  itself  to 
Avdey  for  the  very  reason  that  all  the  rest 
avoided  him.  But  the  good-hearted  youth  did 
not  know  himself  how  great  his  good-hearted- 
ness  was. 

217 


THE   DUELLIST 

'  My  duty,'  he  went  on,  '  is  to  warn  Marya 
Sergicvna.  But  how?  What  right  have  I  to 
interfere  in  other  people's  affairs,  in  other 
people's  love?  How  do  I  know  the  nature 
of  that  love?  Perhaps  even  in  Lutchkov.  .  .  . 
No,  no ! '  he  said  aloud,  with  irritation,  almost 
with  tears,  smoothing  out  his  pillow,  'that 
man 's  stone.  .  .  . 

*  It  is  my  own  fault  ...  I  have  lost  a 
friend.  ...  A  precious  friend,  indeed !  And 
she's  not  worth  much  either!  .  ,  .  What  a 
sickening  egoist  I  am !  No,  no !  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  I  wish  them  happiness.  .  .  . 
Happiness!  but  he  is  laughing  at  her!  .  .  . 
And  why  does  he  dye  his  moustaches?  I  do, 
really,  believe  he  does.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  ridiculous 
I  am  ! '  he  repeated,  as  he  fell  asleep. 


VII 

The  next  morning  Kister  went  to  call  on 
the  Perekatovs.  When  they  met,  Kister  noticed 
a  great  change  in  Masha,  and  Masha,  too,  found 
a  change  in  him,  but  neither  spoke  of  it.  The 
whole  morning  they  both,  contrary  to  their 
habit,  felt  uncomfortable.  Kister  had  prepared 
at  home  a  number  of  hints  and  phrases  of 
double  meaning  and  friendly  counsels  .  .  .  but 
all  this  previous  preparation  turned  out  to  be 
218 


THE    DUELLIST 

quite  thrown  away.  Masha  was  vaguely  aware 
that  Kister  was  watching  her ;  she  fancied  that 
he  pronounced  some  words  with  intentional 
significance ;  but  she  was  conscious,  too,  of  her 
own  excitement,  and  did  not  trust  her  own 
observations.  •  If  only  he  doesn't  mean  to  stay 
till  evening !' was  what  she  was  thinking  in- 
cessantly, and  she  tried  to  make  him  realise 
that  he  was  not  wanted.  Kister,  for  his  part, 
took  her  awkwardness  and  her  uneasiness  for 
obvious  signs  of  love,  and  the  more  afraid  he 
was  for  her  the  more  impossible  he  found  it  to 
speak  of  Lutchkov ;  while  Masha  obstinately 
refrained  from  uttering  his  name.  It  was  a 
painful  experience  for  poor  Fyodor  Fedoritch. 
He  began  at  last  to  understand  his  own  feel- 
ings. Never  had  Masha  seemed  to  him  more 
charming.  She  had,  to  all  appearances,  not 
slept  the  whole  night.  A  faint  flush  stood 
in  patches  on  her  pale  face  ;  her  figure  was 
faintly  drooping  ;  an  unconscious,  weary  smile 
never  left  her  lips  ;  now  and  then  a  shiver  ran 
over  her  white  shoulders  ;  a  soft  light  glowed 
suddenly  in  her  eyes,  and  quickly  faded  away. 
Nenila  Makarievna  came  in  and  sat  with  them, 
and  possibly  with  intention  mentioned  Avdey 
Ivanovitch.  But  in  her  mother's  presence 
Masha  was  armed  jusqu'aux  dents^  as  the 
French  say,  and  she  did  not  betray  herself  at 
all.  So  passed  the  whole  morning. 
219 


THE    DUELLIST 

'You  will  dine  with  us?'  Nenila  Makarievna 
asked  Kister. 

Masha  turned  away. 

'  No,'  Kister  said  hurriedly,  and  he  glanced 
towards  Masha.  '  Excuse  me  .  .  .  duties  of 
the  service  ,  .  .' 

Nenila  Makarievna  duly  expressed  her  regret. 
Mr.  Perekatov,  following  her  lead,  also  expressed 
something  or  other.  '  I  don't  want  to  be  in  the 
way,'  Kister  wanted  to  say  to  Masha,  as  he 
passed  her,  but  he  bowed  down  and  whispered 
instead :  '  Be  happy  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  take 
care  of  yourself  .  .  .'  and  was  gone. 

Masha  heaved  a  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  and  then  felt  panic-stricken  at  his  de- 
parture. What  was  it  fretting  her?  Love  or 
curiosity  ?  God  knows  ;  but,  we  repeat,  curi- 
osity alone  was  enough  to  ruin  Eve. 


VIII 

Long  Meadow  was  the  name  of  a  wide,  level 
stretch  of  ground  on  the  right  of  the  little 
stream  Sniezhinka,  nearly  a  mile  from  the 
Perekatovs'  property.  The  left  bank,  com- 
pletely covered  by  thick  young  oak  bushes. 
rose  steeply  up  over  the  stream,  which  was 
almost  overgrown  with  willow  bushes,  except 
for  some  small  'breeding-places,'  the  haunts  of 
220 


THE   DUELLIST 

wild  ducks.  Half  a  mile  from  the  stream,  on 
the  right  side  of  Long  Meadow,  began  the 
sloping,  undulating  uplands,  studded  here  and 
there  with  old  birch-trees,  nut  bushes,  and 
guelder-roses. 

The  sun  was  setting.  The  mill  rumbled  and 
clattered  in  the  distance,  sounding  louder  or 
softer  according  to  the  wind.  The  seignorial 
drove  of  horses  was  lazily  wandering  about  the 
meadows  ;  a  shepherd  walked,  humming  a  tune, 
after  a  flock  of  greedy  and  timorous  sheep ; 
the  sheepdogs,  from  boredom,  were  running 
after  the  crows.  Lutchkov  walked  up  and 
down  in  the  copse,  with  his  arms  folded.  His 
horse,  tied  up  near  by,  more  than  once  whinnied 
in  response  to  the  sonorous  neighing  of  the 
mares  and  fillies  in  the  meadow.  Avdey  was 
ill-tempered  and  shy,  as  usual.  Not  yet  con- 
vinced of  Masha's  love,  he  felt  wrathful  with 
her  and  annoyed  with  himself  .  .  .  but  his 
excitement  smothered  his  annoyance.  He 
stopped  at  last  before  a  large  nut  bush,  and 
began  with  his  riding-whip  switching  off  the 
leaves  at  the  ends  of  the  twigs.  .  .  , 

He  heard  a  light  rustle  ...  he  raised  his 
head.  .  .  .  Ten  paces  from  him  stood  Masha, 
all  flushed  from  her  rapid  walk,  in  a  hat,  but 
with  no  gloves,  in  a  white  dress,  with  a  hastily 
tied  kerchief  round  her  neck.  She  dropped 
her  eyes  instantly,  and  softly  nodded.  .  .  . 


THE   DUELLIST 

Avdey  went  awkwardly  up  to  her  with  a 
forced  smile. 

'  How  happy  I  am  .  .  .'  he  was  beginning, 
scarcely  audibly. 

'  I  am  very  glad  ...  to  meet  you  .  .  .* 
Masha  interrupted  breathlessly.  '  I  usually 
walk  here  in  the  evening  .  ,  .  and  you  .  .  .' 

But  Lutchkov  had  not  the  sense  even  to 
spare  her  modesty,  to  keep  up  her  innocent 
deception. 

'  I  believe,  Marya  Sergievna,'  he  pronounced 
with  dignity,  'you  yourself  suggested  .  .  .' 

*  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .'  rejoined  Masha  hurriedly. 
'You  wished  to  see  me,  you  wanted  .  .  .* 
Her  voice  died  away. 

Lutchkov  did  not  speak.  Masha  timidly 
raised  her  eyes. 

'  Excuse  me,'  he  began,  not  looking  at  her, 
'  I  'm  a  plain  man,  and  not  used  to  talking 
freely  ...  to  ladies  ...  I  ...  I  wished  to 
tell  you  .  .  .  but,  I  fancy,  you  're  not  in  the 
humour  to  listen  to  me.  .  .  ,* 

'  Speak.' 

'Since  you  tell  me  to  .  ,  .  well,  then,  I  tell 
you  frankly  that  for  a  long  while  now,  ever 
since  I  had  the  honour  of  making  your  ac- 
quaintance .  .  .' 

Avdey  stopped.  Masha  waited  for  the  con- 
clusion of  his  sentence. 

'  I  don't  know,  though,  what  I  'm  telling  you 

222 


THE   DUELLIST 

all  this  for.  .  .  .  There's  no  changing  one's 
destiny  .  .  / 

'  How  can  one  know?  .  ,  .' 

'  I  know  ! '  responded  Avdey  gloomily.  *  I 
am  used  to  facing  its  blows  ! ' 

It  struck  Masha  that  this  was  not  exactly 
the  befitting  moment  for  Lutchkov  to  rail 
against  destiny. 

'  There  are  kind-hearted  people  in  the  world/ 
she  observed  with  a  smile;  'some  even  too 
kind.  .  .  .' 

'  I  understand  you,  Marya  Sergievna,  and 
believe  me,  I  appreciate  your  friendliness  .  .  . 
I  .  ,  .  I  ,  .  .  You  won't  be  angry  ? ' 

'  No.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  to  say?* 

'  I  want  to  say  .  .  .  that  I  think  you  charm- 
ing .  .  .  Marya  Sergievna,  awfully  charming.  .  .  .' 

'  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,'  Masha  in- 
terrupted him ;  her  heart  was  aching  with 
anticipation  and  terror.  'Ah,  do  look,  Mr. 
Lutchkov,'  she  went  on — '  look,  what  a 
view ! ' 

She  pointed  to  the  meadow,  streaked  with 
long,  evening  shadows,  and  flushed  red  with 
the  sunset. 

Inwardly  overjoyed  at  the  abrupt  change  in 
the  conversation,  Lutchkov  began  admiring 
the  view.     He  was  standing  near  Masha.  .  .  . 

'You  love  nature?'  she  asked  suddenly,  with 
a  rapid  turn  of  her  little  head,  looking  at  him 
223 


THE   DUELLIST 

with  that  friendly,  inquisitive,  soft  glance,  which 
is  a  gift  only  vouchsafed  to  young  girls. 

'Yes  .  .  .  nature  ...  of  course  .  .  .'  muttered 
Avdey.  '  Of  course  ...  a  stroll 's  pleasant  in 
the  evening,  though,  I  confess,  I  'm  a  soldier, 
and  fine  sentiments  are  not  in  my  line.' 

Lutchkov  often  repeated  that  he  *  was  a 
soldier.'  A  brief  silence  followed.  Masha  was 
still  looking  at  the  meadow. 

'How  about  getting  away?'  thought  Avdey. 
*  What  rot  it  is,  though  !  Come,  more  pluck  !  .  .  . 
Marya  Sergievna  .  .  .'  he  began,  in  a  fairly 
resolute  voice. 

Masha  turned  to  him. 

'  Excuse  me,'  he  began,  as  though  in  joke, 
'but  let  me  on  my  side  know  what  you  think 
of  me,  whether  you  feel  at  all  .  .  .  so  to  say  .  .  . 
amiably  disposed  towards  my  person?' 

'Mercy  on  us,  how  uncouth  he  is!'  Masha 
said  to  herself.  '  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Lutchkov, 
she  answered  him  with  a  smile,  '  it 's  not 
always  easy  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  a  direct 
question.' 

'Still  .  .  .' 

'  But  what  is  it  to  you  ? ' 

•  Oh,  really  now,  I  want  to  know  .  .  .* 

'But  ...   Is  it  true  that  you  are  a  great 
duellist?     Tell    me,  is  it   true?'  said   Masha, 
with  shy  curiosity.     '  They  do  say  you   have 
killed  more  than  one  man  ?  ' 
224 


THE   DUELLIST 

*  It  has  happened  so,'  Avdey  responded  in- 
dififerently,  and  he  stroked  his  moustaches. 

Masha  looked  intently  at  him. 

'  This  hand  then  .  .  .'  she  murmured.  Mean- 
while Lutchkov's  blood  had  caught  fire.  For 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  young  and 
pretty  girl  had  been  moving  before  his  eyes. 

'  Marya  Sergievna,'  he  began  again,  in  a 
sharp  and  strange  voice,  '  you  know  my  feel- 
ings now,  you  know  what  I  wanted  to  see 
you  for.  .  .  .  You  've  been  so  kind.  . .  .  You  tell 
me,  too,  at  last  what  I  may  hope  for  .  .  .' 

Masha  twisted  a  wildflower  in  her  hands.  .  .  . 
She  glanced  sideways  at  Lutchkov,  flushed, 
smiled,  said,  '  What  nonsense  you  do  talk,'  and 
gave  him  the  flower. 

Avdey  seized  her  hand. 

'  And  so  you  love  me  ! '  he  cried. 

Masha  turned  cold  all  over  with  horror. 
She  had  not  had  the  slightest  idea  of  making 
a  declaration  of  love  to  Avdey  :  she  was  not 
even  sure  herself  as  yet  whether  she  did  care 
for  him,  and  here  he  was  forestalling  her, 
forcing  her  to  speak  out-  he  must  be  mis- 
understanding her  then.  .  .  This  idea  flashed 
quicker  than  lightning  into  Masha's  head. 
She  had  never  expected  such  a  speedy  de- 
nouement. .  .  .  Masha,  like  an  inquisitive  child, 
had  been  asking  herself  al^  day :  '  Can  it 
be  that  Lutchkov  cares  for  me?'  She  had 
p  225 


THE  DUELLIST 

dreamed  of  a  delightful  evening  walk,  a  re- 
spectful and  tender  dialogue ;  she  had  fancied 
how  she  would  flirt  with  him,  make  the  wild 
creature  feel  at  home  with  her,  permit  him  at 
parting  to  kiss  her  hand  .  .  .  and  instead  of 
that  .  .  . 

Instead  of  that,  she  was  suddenly  aware  of 
Avdey's  rough  moustaches  on  her  cheek.  .  .  . 

'  Let  us  be  happy,'  he  was  whispering : 
'  there  's  no  other  happiness  on  earth  ! ' 

Masha  shuddered,  darted  horror-stricken  on 
one  side,  and  pale  all  over,  stopped  short,  one 
hand  leaning  on  a  birch -tree.  Avdey  was 
terribly  confused. 

'  Excuse  me,'  he  muttered,  approaching  her, 
*I  didn't  expect  really  .  .  .' 

Masha  gazed  at  him,  wide-eyed  and  speech- 
less ...  A  disagreeable  smile  twisted  his 
lips  .  ,  .  patches  of  red  came  out  on  his 
face.  .  .  . 

'  What  are  you  afraid  of  ? '  he  went  on  ;  'it's 
no  such  great  matter.  .  .  .  Why,  we  understand 
each  other  .  .  .  and  so.  .  .  .' 

Masha  did  not  speak. 

'  Come,  stop  that !  .  .  .  that 's  all  nonsense  ! 
it's  nothing  but  .  .  .'  Lutchkov  stretched  out 
his  hand  to  her. 

Masha  recollected  Kister,  his  '  take  care  of 
yourself,'  and,  sinking  with  terror,  in  a  rather 
shrill  voice  screamed,  *  Taniusha  ! ' 
226 


THE   DUELLIST 

From  behind  a  nutbush  emerged  the  round 
face  of  her  maid.  .  .  .  Avdey  was  completely 
disconcerted.  Reassured  by  the  presence  of 
her  hand-maiden,  Masha  did  not  stir.  But 
the  bully  was  shaking  all  over  with  rage ;  his 
eyes  were  half  closed ;  he  clenched  his  fists 
and  laughed  nervously. 

'  Bravo  !  bravo  !  Clever  trick — no  denying 
that ! '  he  cried  out. 

Masha  was  petrified. 

'  So  you  took  every  care,  I  see,  to  be  on 
the  safe  side,  Marya  Sergievna !  Prudence  is 
never  thrown  away,  eh  ?  Upon  my  word ! 
Nowadays  young  ladies  see  further  than 
old  men.  So  this  is  all  your  love  amounts 
to!' 

'  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Lutchkov,  who  has  given 
you  any  right  to  speak  about  love  .  .  .  what 
love  ? ' 

'Who?  Why,  you  yourself!'  Lutchkov  cut 
her  short :  '  what  next ! '  He  felt  he  was  ship- 
wrecking the  whole  business,  but  he  could  not 
restrain  himself 

'  I  have  acted  thoughtlessly,'  said  Masha.  .  .  . 
'  I  yielded  to  your  request,  relying  upon  your 
ddicatesse  .  .  .  but  you  don't  know  French  .  .  . 
on  your  courtesy,  I  mean.  .  .  .' 

Avdey  turned  pale.  Masha  had  stung  him 
to  the  quick. 

*  I  don  't  know  French  .  .  .  may  be  \  but  I 
227 


THE  DUELLIST 

know  ...  I  know  very  well  that  you  have 
been  amusing  yourself  at  my  expense.' 

*  Not  at  all,  Avdey  Ivanovitch  .  .  .  indeed, 
I  'm  very  sorry  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  please,  don't  talk  about  being  sorry  for 
me,'  Avdey  cut  her  short  peremptorily  ;  '  spare 
me  that,  anyway  ! ' 

'  Mr.  Lutchkov  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  you  needn't  put  on  those  grand-duchess 
airs.  .  .  It's  trouble  thrown  away!  you  don't 
impress  me.' 

Masha  stepped  back  a  pace,  turned  swiftly 
round  and  walked  away. 

'  Won't  you  give  me  a  message  for  your 
friend,  your  shepherd  lad,  your  tender  sweet- 
heart, Kister,'  Avdey  shouted  after  her.  He 
had  lost  his  head.  '  Isn't  he  the  happy 
man?'  .  .  . 

Masha  made  him  no  reply,  and  hurriedly, 
gladly  retreated.  She  felt  light  at  heart,  in 
spite  of  her  fright  and  excitement.  She  felt 
as  though  she  had  waked  up  from  a  troubled 
sleep,  had  stepped  out  of  a  dark  room  into  air 
and  sunshine.  .  .  .  Avdey  glared  about  him 
like  a  madman  ;  in  speechless  frenzy  he  broke 
a  young  tree,  jumped  on  to  his  mare,  and  so 
viciously  drove  the  spurs  into  her,  so  merci- 
lessly pulled  and  tugged  at  the  reins  that  the 
wretched  beast  galloped  six  miles  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  and  almost  expired  the  same  night. 
228 


THE   DUELLIST 

Kister  waited  for  I.utchkov  in  vain  till  mid- 
night, and  next  morning  he  went  round  him- 
self to  see  him.  The  orderly  informed  Fyodor 
Fedoritch  that  his  master  was  lying  down 
and  had  given  orders  that  he  would  see  no 
one.  '  He  won't  see  me  even  ?  '  '  Not  even  your 
honour.'  Kister  walked  twice  up  and  down 
the  street,  tortured  by  the  keenest  apprehen- 
sions, and  then  went  home  again.  His  servant 
handed  him  a  note. 

*  From  whom  ? ' 

'  From  the  Perekatovs.  Artiomka  the  pos- 
tillion brought  it' 

Kister's  hands  began  to  tremble. 

'  He  had  orders  to  give  you  their  greetings. 
He  had  orders  to  wait  for  your  answer.  Am  I 
to  give  Artiomka  some  vodka?' 

Kister  slowly  unfolded  the  note,  and  read  as 
follows  : 

*  Dear  good  Fyodor  Fedoritch, — I  want 
very,  very  much  to  see  you.  Come  to-day, 
if  you  can.  Don't  refuse  my  request,  I  entreat 
you,  for  the  sake  of  our  old  friendship.  If 
only  you  knew  .  .  .  but  you  shall  know 
everything.     Good-bye  for  a  little  while, — eh  ? 

Marie. 

*P.S. — Be  sure  to  come  to-morrow.' 

'So  your  honour,  am  I  to  give  Artiomka 
some  vodka?' 

229 


THE   DUELLIST 

KIster  turned  a  long,  bewildered  stare  at 
his  servant's  countenance,  and  went  out  with- 
out uttering  a  word. 

'The  master  has  told  me  to  get  you  some 
vodka,  and  to  have  a  drink  with  you,'  said 
Kister's  servant  to  Artiomka  the  postillion. 


IX 


Masha  came  with  such  a  bright  and  grateful 
face  to  meet  Kister,  when  he  came  into  the 
drawing-room,  she  pressed  his  hand  so  warmly 
and  affectionately,  that  his  heart  throbbed 
with  delight,  and  a  weight  seemed  rolled  from 
his  mind.  Masha  did  not,  however,  say  a 
single  word,  and  she  promptly  left  the  room. 
Sergei  Sergeitch  was  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
playing  patience.  Conversation  sprang  up. 
Sergei  Sergeitch  had  not  yet  succeeded  with 
his  usual  skill  in  bringing  the  conversa- 
tion round  from  all  extraneous  topics  to  his 
dog,  when  Masha  reappeared,  wearing  a  plaid 
silk  sash,  Kister's  favourite  sash.  Nenila 
Makarievna  came  in  and  gave  Fyodor  Fedo- 
ritch  a  friendly  greeting.  At  dinner  they 
were  all  laughing  and  making  jokes ;  even 
Sergei  Sergeitch  plucked  up  spirit  and  de- 
scribed one  of  the  merriest  pranks  of  his 
230 


THE   DUELLIST 

youthful  days,  hiding  his  head  from  his  wife 
like  an  ostrich,  as  he  told  the  story. 

'  Let  us  go  for  a  walk,  Fyodor  Fedoritch,' 
Masha  said  to  Kister  after  dinner  with  that 
note  of  affectionate  authority  in  her  voice 
which  is,  as  it  were,  conscious  that  you  will 
gladly  submit  to  it.  '  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  something  very,  very  important,'  she 
added  with  enchanting  solemnity,  as  she  put 
on  her  suede  gloves.  'Are  you  coming  with 
us,  main  an  ?  ' 

'  No,'  answered  Nenila  Makarievna. 

'  But  we  are  not  going  into  the  garden.' 

'  Where  then  ?  ' 

'To  Long  Meadow,  to  the  copse.' 

'Take  Taniusha  with  you.' 

'Taniusha,  Taniusha!'  Masha  cried  music- 
ally, flitting  lightly  as  a  bird  from  the 
room. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Masha  walked 
with  Kister  into  the  Long  Meadow.  As  she 
passed  the  cattle,  she  gave  a  piece  of  bread  to 
her  favourite  cow,  patted  it  on  the  head  and 
made  Kister  stroke  it.  Masha  was  in  great 
good  humour  and  chatted  merrily.  Kister 
responded  willingly,  though  he  awaited  ex- 
planations with  impatience.  .  .  .  Taniusha 
walked  behind  at  a  respectful  distance,  only 
from  time  to  time  stealing  a  sly  glance  at  her 
young  lady. 

231 


THE   DUELLIST 

'  You  're  not  angry  with  me,  Fyodor  Fedo- 
ritch  ? '  queried  Masha. 

'With  you,  Marya  Sergievna?  Why,  what- 
ever for  ? ' 

'  The  day  before  yesterday  .  .  .  don't  you 
remember?' 

'You  were  out  of  humour  .  .  .  that  was 
all.' 

'  What  are  we  walking  in  single  file  for  ?  Give 
me  your  arm.  That 's  right,  ,  .  .  You  were 
out  of  humour  too.' 

'  Yes,  I  was  too.' 

'  But  to-day  I  'm  in  good  humour,  ch  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  think  so,  to-day  .  .  .' 

'And  do  you  know  why?  Because  .  .  .' 
Masha  nodded  her  head  gravely.  '  Well,  I 
know  why.  .  .  .  Because  I  am  with  you,'  she 
added,  not  looking  at  Kister. 

Kister  softly  pressed  her  hand. 

'But  why  don't  you  question  me?  .  .  ,' 
Masha  murmured  in  an  undertone. 

'  What  about  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  don't  pretend  .  .  .  about  my  letter.' 

'  I  was  waiting  for  .  .  .' 

'That's  just  why  I  am  happy  with  you,' 
Masha  interrupted  him  impulsively :  '  because 
you  are  a  gentle,  good-hearted  person,  because 
you  are  incapable  .  .  .  parceqtie  vous  avez  de 
la  dHicatesse.  One  can  say  that  to  you  :  you 
understand  French.' 

232 


THE  DUELLIST 

Kister  did  understand  French,  but  he  did 
not  in  the  least  understand  Masha. 

'  Pick  me  that  flower,  that  one  .  .  .  how 
pretty  it  is! '  Masha  admired  it,  and  suddenly, 
swiftly  withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  arm, 
with  an  anxious  smile  she  began  carefully 
sticking  the  tender  stalk  in  the  buttonhole  of 
Kister's  coat.  Her  slender  fingers  almost 
touched  his  lips.  He  looked  at  the  fingers 
and  then  at  her.  She  nodded  her  head  to  him 
as  though  to  say  '  you  may.'  .  .  .  Kister  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  tips  of  her  gloves. 

Meanwhile  they  drew  near  the  already 
familiar  copse.  Masha  became  suddenly  more 
thoughtful,  and  at  last  kept  silent  altogether. 
They  came  to  the  very  place  where  Lutchkov 
had  waited  for  her.  The  trampled  grass  had 
not  yet  grown  straight  again ;  the  broken 
sapling  had  not  yet  withered,  its  little  leaves 
were  only  just  beginning  to  curl  up  and  fade. 
Masha  stared  about  her,  and  turned  quickly  to 
Kister. 

'  Do  you  know  why  I  have  brought  you 
here  ? ' 

'  No,  I  don't.' 

'Don't  you  know?  Why  is  it  you  haven't 
told  me  anything  about  your  friend  Lutchkov 
to-day  ?     You  always  praise  him  so  .  .  .' 

Kister  dropped  his  eyes,  and  did  not  speak. 

*  Do  you  know,'  Masha  brought  out  with 
233 


THE   DUELLIST 

some  effort,  '  that  I  made  ...  an  appointment 
.  .  .  to  m<;et  him  here  .  .  .  yesterday?' 

'  I  i<now  that/  Kister  rejoined  hurriedly. 

'You  know  it?  .  .  .  Ah!  now  I  see  vviiy  the 
day  before  yesterday  .  .  .  Mr.  Lutchkov  was 
in  a  hurry  it  seems  to  boast  of  his  conquest! 

Kister  was  about  to  answer.  .  .  . 

'  Don't  speak,  don't  say  anything  in  opposi- 
tion. ...  I  know  he 's  your  friend.  You  are 
capable  of  taking  his  part.  You  knew,  Kister, 
you  knew.  .  .  .  How  was  it  you  didn't  pre- 
vent me  from  acting  so  stupidly?  Why  didn't 
you  box  my  ears,  as  if  I  were  a  child?  You 
knew  .  .  .  and  didn't  you  care?' 

'  But  what  right  had  I  .  .  .' 

'  What  right !  .  .  .  the  right  of  a  friend. 
But  he  too  is  your  friend.  ...  I  'm  ashamed, 
Kister.  .  .  .  He  your  friend.  .  .  .  That  man 
behaved  to  me  yesterday,  as  if  .  .  .' 

Masha  turned  away.  Kister's  eyes  flamed  ; 
he  turned  pale. 

*  Oh,  never  mind,  don't  be  angry.  .  . .  Listen, 
Fyodor  Fedoritch,  don't  be  angry.  It's  all  for 
the  best.  I  am  very  glad  of  yesterday's  ex- 
planation .  .  .  yes,  that's  just  what  it  was,' 
added  Masha.  '  What  do  you  suppose  I  am 
telling  you  about  it  for?  To  complain  of  Mr. 
Lutchkov?  Nonsense!  I 've  forgotten  about 
him.  But  I  have  done  you  a  wrong,  my  good 
friend.  ...  I  want  to  speak  openly  to  you,  to 
234 


THE   DUELLIST 

ask  your  forgiveness  .  .  .  your  advice.  You 
have  accustomed  me  to  frankness  ;  I  am  at 
ease  with  you.  .  .  .  You  are  not  a  Mr.  Lutch- 
kov!' 

'  Lutchkov  is  clumsy  and  coarse,'  Kister 
brought  out  with  difficulty;  'but  .  .  .* 

'Why  butl  Aren't  you  ashamed  to  say 
butl  He  is  coarse,  a«<a?  clumsy,  and  ill-natured, 
rt«^  conceited.  ,  .  .  Do  you  hear? — and,  not 
but: 

'You  are  speaking  under  the  influence  of 
anger,  Marya  Sergievna,'  Kister  observed 
mournfully. 

'Anger?  A  strange  sort  of  anger!  Look 
at  me ;  are  people  like  this  when  they  're 
angry?  Listen,'  pursued  Masha ;  'you  may 
think  what  you  like  of  me  .  .  .  but  if  you 
imagine  I  am  flirting  with  you  to-day  from 
pique,  well  .  .  .  well  .  .  .'  (tears  stood  in 
her  eyes)  *  I  shall  be  angry  in  earnest' 

'Do  be  open  with  me,  Marya  Sergievna  .  .  .' 

'  O,  silly  fellow  !  how  slow  you  are  !  Why, 
look  at  me,  am  I  not  open  with  you,  don't  you 
see  right  through  me?' 

'Oh,  very  well  .  .  .  yes;  I  believe  you,' 
Kister  said  with  a  smile,  seeing  with  what 
anxious  insistence  she  tried  to  catch  his  eyes. 
'  But  tell  me,  what  induced  you  to  arrange  to 
meet  Lutchkov?' 

'  What  induced  me  ?  I  really  don't  know 
235 


THE   DUELLIST 

He  wanted  to  speak  to  me  alone.  I  fancied 
he  had  never  had  time,  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  freely.  He  has  spoken  freely 
now !  Do  you  know,  he  may  be  an  extra- 
ordinary man,  but  he  's  a  fool,  really.  .  .  .  He 
doesn't  know  how  to  put  two  words  together. 
He's  simply  an  ignoramus.  Though,  indeed, 
I  don't  blame  him  much  ...  he  might  sup- 
pose I  was  a  giddy,  mad,  worthless  girl.  I 
hardly  ever  talked  to  him.  .  .  .  He  did  excite 
my  curiosity,  certainly,  but  I  imagined  that  a 
man  who  was  worthy  of  being  your  friend  .  .  .' 

'  Don't,  please,  speak  of  him  as  my  friend,' 
Kister  interposed. 

*  No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  separate  you.' 

*0h,  my  God,  for  you  I  'm  ready  to  sacrifice 
more  than  a  friend.  .  .  Everything  is  over 
between  me  and  Mr.  Lutchkov,'  Kister  added 
hurriedly. 

Masha  looked  intently  into  his  face. 

'  Well,  enough  of  him,'  she  said.  *  Don't  let 
us  talk  of  him.  It's  a  lesson  to  me  for  the 
future.  It's  I  that  am  to  blame.  For  several 
months  past  I  have  almost  every  day  seen  a 
man  who  is  good,  clever,  bright,  friendly 
who  .  .  .'  (Masha  was  confused,  and  stammered) 
'who,  I  think,  cared  ...  a  little  ...  for  me 
too  .  .  .  and  I  like  a  fool,'  she  went  on  quickly, 
'  preferred  to  him  ...  no,  no,  I  didn't  prefer 
him,  but  .  .  .' 

236 


THE   DUELLIST 

She  drooped  her  head,  and  ceased  speaking 
in  confusion. 

Kister  was  in  a  sort  of  terror.  •  It  can't  be  ! ' 
he  kept  repeating  to  himself. 

'  Marya  Sergievna  ! '  he  began  at  last. 

Masha  lifted  her  head,  and  turned  upon  him 
eyes  heavy  with  unshed  tears. 

'You  don't  guess  of  whom  I  am  speaking?' 
she  asked. 

Scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  Kister  held  out 
his  hand.     Masha  at  once  clutched  it  warmly. 

'  You  are  my  friend  as  before,  aren't  you  ?  .  .  . 
Why  don't  you  answer?' 

*  I  am  your  friend,  you  know  that,'  he  mur- 
mured. 

'  And  you  are  not  hard  on  me  ?  You  forgive 
me?  .  .  .  You  understand  me?  You're  not 
laughing  at  a  girl  who  made  an  appointment 
only  yesterday  with  one  man,  and  to-day  is 
talking  to  another,  as  I  am  talking  to  you.  .  .  . 
You  're  not  laughing  at  me,  are  you  ?  .  .  .' 
Masha's  face  glowed  crimson,  she  clung  with 
both  hands  to  Kister's  hand.  .  .  . 

*  Laugh  at  you,'  answered  Kister :  *  I  .  .  . 
I  .  .  .  why,  I  love  you  ...  I  love  you,'  he  cried. 

Masha  hid  her  face. 

'  Surely  you  've  long  known  that  I  love  you, 
Marya  Sergievna  ? ' 


»37 


THE  DUELLIST 


Three  weeks  after  this  interview,  Kister  was 
sitting  alone  in  his  room,  writing  the  following 
letter  to  his  mother  : — 

Dearest  Mother  ! — I  make  haste  to  share 
my  great  happiness  with  you  ;  I  am  going  to 
get  married.  This  news  will  probably  only  sur- 
prise you  from  my  not  having,  in  my  previous 
letters,  even  hinted  at  so  important  a  change 
in  my  life — and  you  know  that  I  am  used  to 
sharing  all  my  feelings,  my  joys  and  my  sorrows, 
with  you.  My  reasons  for  silence  are  not  easy 
to  explain  to  you.  To  begin  with,  I  did  not 
know  till  lately  that  I  was  loved ;  and  on  my 
own  side  too,  it  is  only  lately  that  I  have 
realised  myself  all  the  strength  of  my  own 
feeling.  In  one  of  my  first  letters  from  here, 
I  wrote  to  you  of  our  neighbours,  the  Pereka- 
tovs ;  I  am  engaged  to  their  only  daughter, 
Marya.  I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  we 
shall  both  be  happy.  My  feeling  for  her 
is  not  a  fleeting  passion,  but  a  deep  and 
genuine  emotion,  in  which  friendship  is  mingled 
with  love.  Her  bright,  gentle  disposition  is  in 
perfect  harmony  with  my  tastes.  She  is  well- 
educated,  clever,  plays  the  piano  splendidly.  .  .  . 
If  you  could  only  see  her!  I  enclose  her 
238 


THE   DUELLIST 

portrait  sketched  by  me.  I  need  hardly  say 
she  is  a  hundred  times  better-looking  than  her 
portrait.  Masha  loves  you  already,  like  a 
daughter,  and  is  eagerly  looking  forward  to 
seeing  you.  I  mean  to  retire,  to  settle  in  the 
country,  and  to  go  in  for  farming.  Mr.  Pere- 
katov  has  a  property  of  four  hundred  serfs  in 
excellent  condition.  You  see  that  even  from 
the  material  point  of  view,  you  cannot  but 
approve  of  my  plans.  I  will  get  leave  and 
come  to  Moscow  and  to  you.  Expect  me  in 
a  fortnight,  not  later.  My  own  dearest  mother, 
how  happy  I  am  !  .  .  .  Kiss  me  .  .  .'  and  so  on. 
Kister  folded  and  sealed  the  letter,  got  up, 
went  to  the  window,  lighted  a  pipe,  thought  a 
little,  and  returned  to  the  table.  He  took  out 
a  small  sheet  of  notepaper,  carefully  dipped  his 
pen  into  the  ink,  but  for  a  long  while  he  did 
not  begin  to  write,  knitted  his  brows,  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  bit  the  end  of  his  pen.  .  .  . 
At  last  he  made  up  his  mind,  and  in  the  course 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  composed  the 
following : 

'Dear  Avdey  Ivanovitch, — Since  the  day 
of  your  last  visit  (that  is,  for  three  weeks)  you 
have  sent  me  no  message,  have  not  said  a  word 
to  me,  and  have  seemed  to  avoid  meeting  me. 
Every  one  is,  undoubtedly,  free  to  act  as  he 
pleases ;  you  have  chosen  to  break  off  our 
•        239 


THE   DUELLIST 

acquaintance,  and  I  do  not,  believe  me,  in 
addressing  you  intend  to  reproach  you  in  any 
way.  It  is  not  my  intention  or  my  habit  to 
force  myself  upon  any  one  whatever ;  it  is 
enough  for  me  to  feel  that  I  am  not  to  blame 
in  the  matter.  I  am  writing  to  you  now  from 
a  feeling  of  duty.  I  have  made  an  offer  to 
Marya  Sergievna  Perekatov,  and  have  been 
accepted  by  her,  and  also  by  her  parents.  I 
inform  you  of  this  fact — directly  and  immedi- 
ately— to  avoid  any  kind  of  misapprehension 
or  suspicion.  I  frankly  confess,  sir,  that  I  am 
unable  to  feel  great  concern  about  the  good 
opinion  of  a  man  who  himself  shows  so  little 
concern  for  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  other 
people,  and  I  am  writing  to  you  solely  because 
I  do  not  care  in  this  matter  even  to  appear  to 
have  acted  or  to  be  acting  underhandedly.  I 
make  bold  to  say,  you  know  me,  and  will  not 
ascribe  my  present  action  to  any  other  lower 
motive.  Addressing  you  for  the  last  tim.e,  I 
cannot,  for  the  sake  of  our  old  friendship, 
refrain  from  wishing  you  all  good  things 
possible  on  earth. — I  remain,  sincerely,  your 
obedient  servant,  Fyodor  Kister.' 

Fyodor  Fedoritch   despatched  this  note  to 

the  address,  changed  his  uniform,  and  ordered 

his  carriage  to  be  got  ready.     Light-hearted 

and  happy,  he  walked  up  and  down  his  little 

240 


THE  DUELLIST 

room  humming,  even  gave  two  little  skips  in 
the  air,  twisted  a  book  of  songs  into  a  roll,  and 
was  tying  it  up  with  blue  ribbon.  .  .  .  The 
door  opened,  and  Lutchkov,  in  a  coat  without 
epaulettes,  with  a  cap  on  his  head,  came  into 
the  room.  Kister,  astounded,  stood  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  without  finishing  the  bow 
he  was  tying. 

'So  you're  marrying  the  Perekatov  girl?' 
queried  Avdey  in  a  calm  voice. 

Kister  fired  up. 

'  Sir,'  he  began  ;  '  decent  people  take  off  their 
caps  and  say  good-morning  when  they  come 
into  another  man's  room.' 

'  Beg  pardon,'  the  bully  jerked  out ;  and  he 
took  off  his  cap.     '  Good- morning.' 

'  Good-morning,  Mr.  Lutchkov.  You  ask 
me  if  I  am  about  to  marry  Miss  Perekatov  ? 
Haven't  you  read  my  letter,  then  ? ' 

*  I  have  read  your  letter.  You  're  going  to 
get  married.     I  congratulate  you.' 

'  I  accept  your  congratulation,  and  thank 
you  for  it.     But  I  must  be  starting.' 

'  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  of  explana- 
tion with  you,  Fyodor  Fedoritch.' 

'  By  all  means,  w^ith  pleasure,'  responded 
the  good-natured  fellow.  '  I  must  own  I 
was  expecting  such  an  ex[)lanation.  Your 
behaviour  to  me  has  been  so  strange,  and  I 
think,  on  my  side,  I  have  not  deserved  .  ,  . 
Q  241 


THE  DUELLIST 

at  least,  I  had  no  reason  to  expect  .  .  . 
But  won't  you  sit  down  ?  Wouldn't  you 
like  a  pipe?' 

Lutchkov  sat  down.  There  was  a  certain 
weariness  perceptible  in  his  movements.  He 
stroked  his  moustaches  and  lifted  his  eye- 
brows. 

'  I  say,  Fyodor  Fedoritch,'  he  began  at  last ; 
*  why  did  you  keep  it  up  with  me  so  long  ?  .  . .' 

*  How  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'Why  did  you  pose  as  such  ...  a  disinter- 
ested being,  when  you  were  just  such  another 
as  all  the  rest  of  us  sinners  all  the  while  ?' 

'  I  don't  understand  you.  .  .  .  Can  I  have 
wounded  you  in  some  way?  .  ,  .' 

'You  don't  understand  me  ...  all  right. 
I  '11  try  and  speak  more  plainly.  Just  tell  me, 
for  instance,  openly,  Have  you  had  a  liking  for 
the  Perekatov  girl  all  along,  or  is  it  a  case  of 
sudden  passion? ' 

'  I  should  prefer,  Avdey  Ivanitch,  not  to 
discuss  with  you  my  relations  with  Marya 
Sergievna,'  Kister  responded  coldly. 

'  Oh,  indeed  !  As  you  please.  Only  you  '11 
kindly  allow  me  to  believe  that  you  've  been 
humbugging  me.' 

Avdey  spoke  very  deliberately  and  emphati- 
cally. 

'You  can't  believe  that,  Avdey  Ivanitch; 
you  know  me.' 

242 


THE   DUKLLIST 

' I  know  you  ?  .  .  .  who  knows  you  ?  The 
heart  of  another  is  a  dark  forest,  and  the  best 
side  of  goods  is  always  turned  u-jopermost.  I 
know  you  read  German  poetry  with  great  feel- 
ing and  even  with  tears  in  your  eyes  ;  I  know 
that  you  've  hung  various  maps  on  your  walls  ; 
I  know  you  keep  your  person  clean  ;  that 
I  know,  .  .  .  but  beyond  that,  I  know 
nothing  .  .  .' 

Kistcr  began  to  lose  his  temper. 

'Allow  me  to  inquire,'  he  asked  at  last, 
'what  is  the  object  of  your  visit?  You  have 
sent  no  message  to  me  for  three  weeks,  and 
now  you  come  to  me,  apparently  with  the  in- 
tention of  jeering  at  me.  I  am  not  a  boy,  sir, 
and  I  do  not  allow  any  one  .  .  .' 

'  Mercy  on  us,'  Lutchkov  interrupted  him  ; 
'  mercy  on  us,  Fyodor  Fedoritch,  who  would 
venture  to  jeer  at  you?  It's  quite  the  other 
way  ;  I  've  come  to  you  with  a  most  humble 
request,  that  is,  that  you  'd  do  me  the  favour  to 
explain  your  behaviour  to  me.  Allow  me  to 
ask  you,  wasn't  it  you  who  forced  me  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Perekatov  family  ? 
Didn't  you  assure  your  humble  servant  that  it 
would  make  his  soul  blossom  into  flower  ?  And 
lastly,  didn't  you  throw  me  with  the  virtuous 
Marya  Sergievna  ?  Why  am  I  not  to  presume 
that  it's  to  you  I'm  indebted  for  that  final 
agreeable  scene,  of  which  you  have  doubtless 
243 


THE   DUELLIST 

been  informed  in  befitting  fashion  ?  An  en- 
gaged girl,  of  course,  tells  her  betrothed  of 
everything,  especially  of  her  innocent  indis- 
cretions. How  can  I  help  supposing  that  it 's 
thanks  to  you  I  've  been  made  such  a  terrific 
fool  of?  You  took  such  a  mighty  interest  in 
my  "  blossoming  out,"  you  know  ! ' 

Kister  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

'  Look  here,  Lutohkov,'  he  said  at  last ;  '  if 
you  really — joking  apart — are  convinced  of 
what  you  say,  which  I  confess  I  don't  believe, 
then  let  me  tell  you,  it's  shameful  and  wicked 
of  you  to  put  such  an  insulting  construction  on 
my  conduct  and  intentions.  I  dont  want  to 
justify  myself  ...  I  appeal  to  your  own 
conscience,  to  your  memory.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  remember  you  were  continually 
whispering  with  Marya  Sergievaa.  Besides 
that,  let  me  ask  you  another  question  :  Weren't 
you  at  the  Perekatovs'  after  a  certain  conver- 
sation with  me,  after  that  evening  when  I 
like  a  fool  chattered  to  you,  thinking  you 
my  greatest  friend,  of  the  meeting  she'd 
arranged?' 

•  What !  you  suspect  me  .  .  .' 

*  I  suspect  other  people  of  nothing,'  Avdey 
cut  him  short  with  cutting  iciness,  'of  which  I 
would  not  suspect  myself;  but  I  have  the 
weakness  to  suppose  that  other  men  are  no 
better  than  I  am.' 

244 


THE   DUELLIST 

'  You  arc  mistaken/  Kister  retorted  em- 
phatically ;  'other  men  are  better  than  you.' 

'  I  congratulate  them  upon  it,'  Lutchkov 
dropped  carelessly;  'but  .  .  .' 

'  But  remember,'  broke  in  Kister,  now  in 
his  turn  thoroughly  infuriated,  '  in  what  terms 
you  spoke  of  ...  of  that  meeting  .  .  .  of  .  .  . 
But  these  explanations  are  leading  to  nothing, 
I  see.  .  .  .  Think  what  you  choose  of  me,  and 
act  as  you  think  best.' 

'  Come,  that 's  better,'  observed  Avdey.  '  At 
last  you  're  beginning  to  speak  plainly.' 

'  As  you  think  best/  repeated  Kister. 

'I  understand  your  position,  Fyodor  Fedo- 
ritch,'  Avdey  went  on  with  an  affectation  of 
sympathy;  'it's  disagreeable,  certainly.  A 
man  has  been  acting,  acting  a  part,  and  no  one 
has  recognised  him  as  a  humbug  ;  and  all  of  a 
sudden  .  .  .' 

'  If  I  could  believe/  Kister  interrupted,  setting 
his  teeth,  '  that  it  was  wounded  love  that  makes 
you  talk  like  this,  I  should  feel  sorry  for  you  ; 
I  could  excuse  you.  .  .  .  But  in  your  abuse,  in 
your  false  charges,  I  hear  nothing  but  the 
shriek  of  mortified  pride  .  .  .  and  I  feel  no 
sympathy  for  you.  .  .  ,  You  have  deserved 
what  you  've  got.' 

'Ugh,  mercy  on  us,  how  the  fellow  talks!' 
Avdey  murmured.  '  Piide/  he  went  on  ;  'may 
be ;  yes,  yes,  my  pride,  as  you  say,  has  been 
245 


THE  DUELLIST 

mortified  intensely  and  insufferably.  Rut  who 
isn't  proud  ?  Aren't  you  ?  Yes,  I  'm  proud, 
and  for  instance,  I  permit  no  one  to  feel  sorry 
for  me.  .  .  .' 

'  You  don't  permit  it ! '  Kister  retorted 
haughtily.  '  What  an  expression,  sir  1  Don't 
forget,  the  tie  between  us  you  yourself  have 
broken.  I  must  beg  you  to  behave  with  me  as 
with  a  complete  outsider.' 

'  Broken  1  Broken  the  tie  between  us ! ' 
repeated  Avdey.  *  Understand  me ;  I  have 
sent  you  no  message,  and  have  not  been  to 
see  you  because  I  was  sorry  for  you ;  you 
must  allow  me  to  be  sorry  for  you,  since 
you're  sorry  for  me!  ...  I  didn't  want  to 
put  you  in  a  false  position,  to  make  your  con- 
science prick.  .  .  .  You  talk  of  a  tie  between 
us  ...  as  though  you  could  remain  my  friend 
as  before  your  marriage  I  Rubbish  !  Why, 
you  were  only  friendly  with  me  before  to 
gloat  over  your  fancied  superiority  .  .  .' 

Avdey's  duplicity  overwhelmed,  confounded 
Kister. 

'Let  us  end  this  unpleasant  conversation  I' 
he  cried  at  last.  '  I  must  own  I  don't  see 
why  you  've  been  pleased  to  come  to  me.' 

'  You  don't  see  what  I  've  come  to  you  for  ? ' 
Avdey  asked  inquiringly. 

'  I  certainly  don't  see  why.' 

«  N— o  ? ' 

246 


THE   DUELLIST  . 

•  No,  I  tell  you  .  .  .' 

'  Astonishing !  .  .  .  This  is  astonishing ! 
Who'd  have  thought  it  of  a  fellow  of  your 
iutclligence  ! ' 

'  Come,  speak  plainly  .  .  .* 

'  I  have  come,  Mr.  Kister,'  said  Avdey,  slowly 
rising  to  his  feet,  '  I  have  come  to  challenge 
you  to  a  duel.  Do  you  understand  now?  I 
want  to  fight  you.  Ah !  you  thought  you 
could  get  rid  of  me  like  that  I  Why,  didn't 
you  know  the  sort  of  man  you  have  to  do 
with?     As  if  I  'd  allow  .  .  .' 

'  Very  good,'  Kister  cut  in  coldly  and  ab- 
ruptly. '  I  accept  your  challenge.  Kindly  send 
me  your  second.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  pursued  Avdey,  who,  like  a  cat, 
could  not  bear  to  let  his  victim  go  so  soon : 
'it'll  give  me  great  pleasure  I'll  own  to  put 
a  bullet  into  your  fair  and  idealistic  counte- 
nance to-morrow.' 

'  You  are  abusive  after  a  challenge,  it  seems,' 
Kister  rejoined  contemptuously.  '  Be  so  good 
as  to  go.     I  'm  ashamed  of  you,' 

'  Oh,  to  be  sure,  ddicatesse !  .  .  .  Ah,  Marya 
Sergievna,  I  don't  know  French!'  growled 
Avdey,  as  he  put  on  his  cap.  '  Till  we  meet 
again,  Fyodor  Fedoritch  ! ' 

He  bowed  and  walked  out. 

Kister  paced  several  times  up  and  down  the 
room.  His  face  burned,  his  breast  heaved 
24.7 


THE   DUELLIST 

violently.  He  felt  neither  fear  nor  anger; 
but  it  sickened  him  to  think  what  this  man 
really  was  that  he  had  once  looked  upon  as  a 
friend.  The  idea  of  the  duel  with  Lutchkov 
was  almost  pleasant  to  him.  .  .  .  Once  get  free 
from  the  past,  leap  over  this  rock  in  his  path, 
and  then  to  float  on  an  untroubled  tide  .  .  . 
'Good,'  he  thought,  'I  shall  be  fighting  to 
win  my  happiness.'  Masha's  image  seemed  to 
smile  to  him,  to  promise  him  success.  '  I  'm 
not  going  to  be  killed !  not  I ! '  he  repeated 
with  a  serene  smile.  On  the  table  lay  the 
letter  to  his  mother.  .  .  .  He  felt  a  momentary 
pang  at  his  heart.  He  resolved  any  way  to 
defer  sending  it  off.  There  was  in  Kister  that 
quickening  of  the  vital  energies  of  which  a 
man  is  aware  in  face  of  danger.  He  calmly 
thought  over  all  the  possible  results  of  the 
duel,  mentally  placed  Masha  and  himself  in 
all  the  agonies  of  misery  and  parting,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  future  with  hope.  He 
swore  to  himself  not  to  kill  Lutchkov  .  .  .  He 
felt  irresistibly  drawn  to  Masha.  He  paused 
a  second,  hurriedly  arranged  things,  and 
directly  after  dinner  set  off  to  the  Perekatovs. 
All  the  evening  Kister  was  in  good  spirits, 
perhaps  in  too  good  spirits. 

Masha  played  a  great  deal  on  the  piano,  felt 
no  foreboding  of  evil,  and  flirted  charmingly 
with     him.       At     first     her     unconsciousness 
248 


THE   T)UELLI.ST 

wounded  him,  then  he  took  Masha's  very 
unconsciousness  as  a  happy  omen,  and  was 
rejoiced  and  reassured  by  it.  She  had  grown 
fonder  and  fonder  of  him  every  day  ;  happiness 
was  for  her  a  much  more  urgent  need  than 
passion.  Besides,  Avdey  had  turned  her 
from  all  exaggerated  desires,  and  she  re- 
nounced them  joyfully  and  for  ever.  Nenila 
Makarievna  loved  Kister  like  a  son.  Sergei 
Sergeitch  as  usual  followed  his  wife's  lead. 

'  Till  we  meet,'  Masha  said  to  Kister.following 
him  into  the  hall  and  gazing  at  him  with  a  soft 
smile,  as  he  slowly  and  tenderly  kissed  her 
hands. 

•Till  we  meet,'  Fyodor  Fedoritch  repeated 
confidently  ;  'till  we  meet.' 

But  when  he  had  driven  half  a  mile  from  the 
Perekatovs'  house,  he  stood  up  in  the  carriage, 
and  with  vague  uneasiness  began  looking  for 
the  lighted  windows.  .  .  .  All  in  the  house  was 
dark  as  in  the  tomb. 


XI 


Next  day  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Kister's  second,  an  old  major  of  tried  merit, 
came  for  him.  The  good  old  man  growled  to 
himself,  bit  his  grey  moustaches,  and  wished 
Avdey  Ivanovitch  everything  unpleasant.  .  .  . 
249 


THE   DUELLIST 

The  carriage  was  brought  to  the  door.     Kister 
handed   the   major   two    letters,   one    for   his 
mother,  the  other  for  Masha. 
'What's  this  for?' 

*  Well,  one  can  never  tell      ,  .' 
'Nonsense!    we'll    shoot   him    like   a   part- 
ridge .  .  .' 

*  Any  way  it 's  better  .  .  .' 

The  major  with   vexation    stuffed    the  two 
letters  in  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat. 

*  Let  us  start.' 

They  set  off.  In  a  small  copse,  a  mile  and 
a  half  from  the  villa_G:e  of  Kirilovo,  Lutchkov 
was  awaiting  them  with  his  former  friend,  the 
perfumed  adjutant.  It  was  lovely  weather,  the 
birds  were  twittering  peacefully  ;  not  far  from 
the  copse  a  peasant  was  tilling  the  ground. 
While  the  seconds  were  marking  out  the 
distance,  fixing  the  barrier,  examining  and 
loading  the  pistols,  the  opponents  did  not  even 
glance  at  one  another.  .  .  .  Kister  walked  to 
and  fro  with  a  careless  air,  swinging  a  flower 
he  had  gathered  ;  Avdey  stood  motionless, 
with  folded  arms  and  scowling  brow.  The 
decisive  moment  arrived.  '  Begin,  gentlemen!' 
Kister  went  rapidly  towards  the  barrier,  but 
he  had  not  gone  five  steps  before  Avdcy  fired, 
Kister  started,  made  one  more  step  forward, 
staggered.  His  head  sank  .  .  .  His  knees  bent 
under  him  .  .  .  He  fell  like  a  sack  on  the 
250 


THE   DUELLIST 

grass.  The  major  rushed  up  to  him.  .  .  .  •  Is 
it  possible?'  whispered  the  dying  man. 

Avdey  went  up  to  the  man  he  had  killed. 
On  his  gloomy  and  sunken  face  was  a  look  of 
savage,  exasperated  regret  .  .  .  He  looked  at 
the  adjutant  and  the  major,  bent  his  head  like 
a  guilty  man,  got  on  his  horse  without  a 
word,  and  rode  slowly  straight  to  the  colonel's 
quarters. 

Masha  ...  is  living  to  this  day. 

1846, 


»ti 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

'Neighbours'  constitute  one  of  the  most 
serious  drawbacks  of  life  in  the  country.  I 
knew  a  country  gentleman  of  the  Vologodsky 
district,  who  used  on  every  suitable  occasion 
to  repeat  the  following  words,  'Thank  God,  I 
have  no  neighbours,'  and  I  confess  I  could  not 
help  envying  that  happy  mortal.  My  own 
little  place  is  situated  in  one  of  the  most 
thickly  peopled  provinces  of  Russia.  I  am 
surrounded  by  a  vast  number  of  dear  neigh- 
bours, from  highly  respectable  and  highly 
respected  country  gentlemen,  attired  in  ample 
frockcoats  and  still  more  ample  waistcoats, 
down  to  regular  loafers,  wearing  jackets  with 
long  sleeves  and  a  so-called  shooting-bag  on 
their  back.  In  this  crowd  of  gentlefolks  I 
chanced,  however,  to  discover  one  very  pleasant 
fellow.  He  had  served  in  the  army,  had  retired 
and  settled  for  good  and  all  in  the  country. 
According   to   his   story,  he    had    served    for 

two  years  in  the  B regiment.     But  1  am 

totally  unable  to  comprehend  how  that  man 
252 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

could  have  performed  any  sort  of  duty,  not 
merely  for  two  years,  but  even  for  two  days. 
He  was  born  '  for  a  life  of  peace  and  country 
calm,'  that  is  to  say,  for  lazy,  careless  vegetation, 
which,  I  note  parenthetically,  is  not  without 
great  and  inexhaustible  charms.  He  possessed 
a  very  fair  property,  and  without  giving  too 
much  thought  to  its  management,  spent  about 
ten  thousand  roubles  a  year,  had  obtained  an 
excellent  cook — my  friend  was  fond  of  good  fare 
— and  ordered  too  from  Moscow  all  the  newest 
French  books  and  magazines.  In  Russian  he 
read  nothing  but  the  reports  of  his  bailiff,  and 
that  with  great  difficulty.  He  used,  when  he 
did  not  go  out  shooting,  to  wear  a  dressing- 
gown  from  morning  till  dinner-time  and  at 
dinner.  He  would  look  through  plans  of  some 
sort,  or  go  round  to  the  stables  or  to  the  thresh- 
ing barn,  and  joke  with  the  peasant  women, 
who,  to  be  sure,  in  his  presence  wielded  their 
flails  in  leisurely  fashion.  After  dinner  my 
friend  would  dress  very  carefully  before  the 
looking-glass,  and  drive  off  to  see  some  neigh- 
bour possessed  of  two  or  three  pretty  daughters. 
He  would  flirt  serenely  and  unconcernedly 
with  one  of  them,  play  blind-man's-buff  with 
them,  return  home  rather  late  and  promptly 
fall  into  a  heroic  sleep.  He  could  never  be 
bored,  for  he  never  gave  himself  up  to  complete 
inactivity ;  and  in  the  choice  of  occupations  he 
253 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

was  not  difficult  to  please,  and  was  amused 
like  a  child  with  the  smallest  trifle.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  cherished  no  particular  attach- 
ment to  life,  and  at  times,  when  he  chanced  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  track  of  a  wolf  or  a  fox, 
he  would  let  his  horse  go  at  full  gallop  over 
such  ravines  that  to  this  day  I  cannot  under- 
stand how  it  was  he  did  not  break  his  neck  a 
hundred  times  over.  He  belonged  to  that 
class  of  persons  who  inspire  in  one  the  idea 
that  they  do  not  know  their  own  value,  that 
under  their  appearance  of  indifference  strong 
and  violent  passions  lie  concealed.  But  he 
would  have  laughed  in  one's  face  if  he  could 
have  guessed  that  one  cherished  such  an 
opinion  of  him.  And  indeed  I  must  own  1 
believe  myself  that  even  supposing  my  friend 
had  had  in  youth  some  strong  impulse,  how- 
ever vague,  towards  what  is  so  sweetly  called 
'higher  things,'  that  impulse  had  long,  long  ago 
died  out.  He  was  rather  stout  and  enjoyed 
superb  health.  In  our  day  one  cannot  help 
liking  people  who  think  little  about  them- 
selves, because  they  are  exceedingly  rare  -  . 
and  my  friend  had  almost  forgotten  his  own 
personality.  I  fancy,  though,  that  I  have  said 
too  much  about  him  already,  and  my  prolixity 
is  the  more  uncalled  for  as  he  is  not  the  hero 
of  my  story.  His  name  was  Piotr  Fedorovitch 
Lutchinov. 

254 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

One  autumn  day  there  were  five  of  us,  ardent 
sportsmen,  gathered  together  at  Piotr  Fedoro- 
vitch's.  We  had  spent  the  whole  morning  out, 
had  run  down  a  couple  of  foxes  and  a  number 
of  hares,  and  had  returned  home  in  that 
supremely  agreeable  frame  of  mind  which 
comes  over  every  well-regulated"  person  after 
a  successful  day's  shooting.  It  grew  dusk. 
The  wind  was  frolicking  over  the  dark  fields 
and  noisily  swinging  the  bare  tops  of  the 
birches  and  lime-trees  round  Lutchinov's  house. 
We  reached  the  house,  got  off  our  horses.  .  .  . 
On  the  steps  I  stood  still  and  looked  round  : 
long  storm-clouds  were  creeping  heavily  over 
the  grey  sky ;  a  dark-brown  bush  was  writh- 
ing in  the  wind,  and  murmuring  plaintively  ; 
the  yellow  grass  helplessly  and  forlornly 
bowe(/  down  to  the  earth ;  flocks  of  thrushes 
were  fluttering  in  the  mountain-ashes  among 
the  bright,  flame-coloured  clusters  of  berries. 
Among  the  light  brittle  twigs  of  the  birch- 
trees  blue-tits  hopped  whistling.  In  the  village 
there  was  the  hoarse  barking  of  dogs.  I  felt 
melancholy  .  .  .  but  it  was  with  a  genuine 
sense  of  comfort  that  I  walked  into  the  dining- 
room.  The  shutters  were  closed  ;  on  a  round 
table,  covered  with  a  tablecloth  of  dazzling 
whiteness,  amid  cut-glass  decanters  of  red  wine, 
there  were  eight  lighted  candles  in  silver 
candlesticks ;  a  fire  glowed  cheerfully  on  the 

2SS 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

hearth,  and  an  old  and  very  stately-looking 
butler,  with  a  huge  bald  head,  wearing  an 
English  dress,  stood  before  another  table  on 
which  was  pleasingly  conspicuous  a  large  soup- 
tureen,  encircled  by  light  savoury-smelling 
steam.  In  the  hall  we  prassed  by  another 
venerable  man,  engaged  in  icing  champagne — 
'  according  to  the  strictest  rules  of  the  art.' 
The  dinner  was,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
exceedingly  pleasant.  We  laughed  and  talked 
of  the  incidents  of  the  day's  shooting,  and 
recalled  with  enthusiasm  two  glorious  '  runs.' 
After  dining  pretty  heartily,  we  settled  com- 
fortably into  ample  arm-chairs  round  the  fire ; 
a  huge  silver  bowl  made  its  appearance  on 
the  table,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  white 
flame  of  the  burning  rum  announced  our 
host's  agreeable  intention  '  to  concoct  a  punch.' 
Piotr  Fedoritch  was  a  man  of  some  taste  ;  he 
was  aware,  for  instance,  that  nothing  has  so 
fatal  an  influence  on  the  fancy  as  the  cold, 
steady,  pedantic  light  of  a  lamp,  and  so  he 
gave  orders  that  only  two  candles  should  be 
left  in  the  room.  Strange  half- shadows 
quivered  on  the  walls,  thrown  by  the  fanciful 
play  of  the  fire  in  the  hearth  and  the  flame  of 
the  punch  ...  a  soft,  exceedingly  agreeable 
sense  of  soothing  comfort  replaced  in  our 
hearts  the  somewhat  boisterous  gaiety  that 
had  reigned  at  dinner. 

256 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

Conversations  have  their  destinies,  like 
books,  as  the  Latin  proverb  says,  like  every- 
thing^ in  the  world.  Our  conversation  that 
evening  was  particularly  many-sided  and  lively. 
From  details  it  passed  to  rather  serious  general 
questions,  and  lightly  and  casually  came  back 
to  the  daily  incidents  of  life.  .  .  .  After  chatting 
a  good  deal,  we  suddenly  all  sank  into  silence. 
At  such  times  they  say  an  angel  of  peace  is 
flying  over. 

I  cannot  say  why  my  companions  were  silent, 
but  I  held  my  tongue  because  my  eyes  had 
suddenly  come  to  rest  on  three  dusty  portraits 
in  black  wooden  frames.  The  colours  were 
rubbed  and  cracked  in  places,  but  one  could  still 
make  out  the  faces.  The  portrait  in  the  centre 
was  that  of  a  young  woman  in  a  white  gown 
with  lace  ruffles,  her  hair  done  up  high,  in  the 
style  of  the  eighties  of  last  century.  On  her 
right,  upon  a  perfectly  black  background, 
there  stood  out  the  full,  round  face  of  a  good- 
natured  country  gentleman  of  five-and-twenty, 
with  a  broad,  low  brow,  a  thick  nose,  and  a 
good-humoured  smile.  The  French  powdered 
coiffure  was  utterly  out  of  keeping  with  the 
expression  of  his  Slavonic  face.  The  artist 
had  portrayed  him  wearing  a  long  loose  coat 
of  crimson  colour  with  large  paste  buttons; 
in  his  hand  he  was  holding  some  unlikely- 
looking  flower.  The  third  portrait,  which  was 
R  257 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

the  work  of  some  other  more  skilful  hand, 
represented  a  man  of  thirty,  in  the  green  uni- 
form, with  red  facings,  of  the  time  of  Catherine, 
in  a  white  shirt,  with  a  fine  cambric  cravat. 
One  hand  leaned  on  a  gold-headed  cane,  the 
other  lay  on  his  shirt  front.  His  dark,  thinnish 
face  was  full  of  insolent  haughtiness.  The  fine 
long  eyebrows  almost  grew  together  over  the 
pitch-black  eyes,  about  the  thin,  scarcely  dis- 
cernible lips  played  an  evil  smile. 

*  Why  do  you  keep  staring  at  those  faces  ? ' 
Piotr  Fedoritch  asked  me. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know ! '  I  answered,  looking  at 
him. 

'Would  you  care  to  hear  a  whole  story  about 
those  three  persons  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  please  tell  it,'  we  all  responded  with 
one  voice. 

Piotr  Fedoritch  got  up,  took  a  candle, 
carried  it  to  the  portraits,  and  in  the  tone  of 
a  showman  at  a  wild  beast  show,  '  Gentlemen  ! ' 
he  boomed,  '  this  lady  was  the  adopted  child 
of  my  great-grandfather,  Olga  Ivanovna  N.N., 
called  Lutchinov,  who  died  forty  years  ago 
unmarried.  This  gentleman,'  he  pointed  to 
the  portrait  of  a  man  in  uniform,  '  served  as  a 
lieutenant  in  the  Guards,  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
Lutchinov,  expired  by  the  will  of  God  in  the 
year  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety.  And  this 
gentleman,  to  whom  I  have  not  the  honour  of 
258 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

beinq;  related,  is  a  certain  Pavel  Afanasiitch 
Rogatchov,  serving  nowhere,  as  far  as  I  'm 
aware.  .  .  .  Kindly  take  note  of  the  hole  in 
his  breast,  just  on  the  spot  where  the  heart 
should  be.  That  hole,  you  see,  a  regular  three- 
sided  hole,  would  be  hardly  likely  to  have  come 
there  by  chance.  .  .  .  Now,'  he  went  on  in  his 
usual  voice,  *  kindly  seat  yourselves,  arm  your- 
selves with  patience,  and  listen.' 

Gentlemen  !  (he  began)  I  come  of  a  rather 
old  family.  I  am  not  proud  of  my  descent, 
seeing  that  my  ancestors  were  all  fearful 
prodigals.  Though  that  reproach  cannot 
indeed  be  made  against  my  great-grandfather, 
Ivan  Andreevitch  Lutchinov ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  had  the  character  of  being  excessively 
careful,  even  miserly — at  any  rate,  in  the  latter 
years  of  his  life.  He  spent  his  youth  in  Peters- 
burg, and  lived  through  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
In  Petersburg  he  married,  and  had  by  his  wife, 
my  great-grandmother,  four  children,  three 
sons,  Vassily,  Ivan,  and  Pavel,  my  grand- 
father, and  one  daughter,  Natalia.  In  addi- 
tion, Ivan  Andreevitch  took  into  his  family  the 
daughter  of  a  distant  relation,  a  nameless  and 
destitute  orphan — Olga  Ivanovna,  of  whom  I 
spoke  just  now.  My  great-grandfather's  serfs 
were  probably  aware  of  his  existence,  for 
they  used  (when  nothing  particularly  unlucky 
259 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

occurred)  to  send  him  a  trifling  rent,  but  they 
had  never  seen  his  face.  The  village  of  Lutch- 
inovka,  deprived  of  the  bodily  presence  of  its 
lord,  was  flourishing  exceedingly,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  one  fine  morning  a  cumbrous  old 
family  coach  drove  into  the  village  and 
stopped  before  the  elder's  hut.  The  peasants, 
alarmed  at  such  an  unheard-of  occurrence,  ran 
up  and  saw  their  master  and  mistress  and  all 
their  young  ones,  except  the  eldest,  Vassily, 
who  was  left  behind  in  Petersburg.  From 
that  memorable  day  down  to  the  very  day  of 
his  death,  Ivan  Andreevitch  never  left  Lutch- 
inovka.  He  built  himself  a  house,  the  very 
house  in  which  I  have  the  pleasure  of  con- 
versing with  you  at  this  moment.  He  built 
a  church  too,  and  began  living  the  life  of  a 
country  gentleman.  Ivan  Andreevitch  was 
a  man  of  immense  height,  thin,  silent,  and 
very  deliberate  in  all  his  movements.  He 
never  wore  a  dressing-gown,  and  no  one  but 
his  valet  had  ever  seen  him  without  powder. 
Ivan  Andreevitch  usually  walked  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  turning  his 
head  at  each  stej).  Every  day  he  used  to  walk 
in  a  long  avenue  of  lime-trees,  which  he  had 
planted  with  his  own  hand  ;  and  before  his 
death  he  had  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  the 
shade  of  those  trees.  Ivan  Andreevitch  was 
exceedingly  sparing  of  his  words ;  a  proof  of 
260 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

his  taciturnity  is  to  be  found  in  the  remarkable 
fact  that  in  the  course  of  twenty  years  he  had 
not  said  a  single  word  to  his  wife,  Anna  Pav- 
lovna.  His  relations  with  Anna  Pavlovna 
altogether  were  of  a  very  curious  sort.  She 
directed  the  whole  management  of  the  house- 
hold ;  at  dinner  she  always  sat  beside  her 
husband — he  would  mercilessly  have  chastised 
any  one  who  had  dared  to  say  a  disrespectful 
word  to  her — and  yet  he  never  spoke  to  her, 
never  touched  her  hand.  Anna  Pavlovna  was 
a  pale,  broken-spirited  woman,  completely 
crushed.  She  prayed  every  day  on  her  knees 
in  church,  and  she  never  smiled.  There  was  a 
rumour  that  they  had  formerly,  that  is,  before 
they  came  into  the  country,  lived  on  very 
cordial  terms  with  one  another.  They  did 
say  too  that  Anna  Pavlovna  had  been  untrue 
to  her  matrimonial  vows ;  that  her  conduct 
had  come  to  her  husband's  knowledge.  .  .  . 
Be  that  as  it  may,  any  way  Ivan  Andreevitch, 
even  when  dying,  was  not  reconciled  to  her. 
During  his  last  illness,  she  never  left  him  ;  but 
he  seemed  not  to  notice  her.  One  night,  Anna 
Pavlovna  was  sitting  in  Ivan  Andreevitch's 
bedroom — he  suffered  from  sleeplessness — a 
lamp  was  burning  before  the  holy  picture. 
My  grandfather's  servant,  Yuditch,  of  whom 
I  shall  have  to  say  a  few  words  later,  went  out 
of  the  room.  Anna  Pavlovna  got  up,  crossed 
261 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

the  room,  and  sobbing  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  at  her  husband's  bedside,  tried  to  say 
something — stretched  out  her  hands  .  .  .  Ivan 
Andreevitch  looked  at  her,  and  in  a  faint  voice, 
but  resolutely,  called,  *  Boy  ! '  The  servant 
went  in  ;  Anna  Pavlovna  hurriedly  rose,  and 
went  back,  tottering,  to  her  place. 

Ivan  Andreevitch's  children  were  exceedingly 
afraid  of  him.  They  grew  up  in  the  country, 
and  were  witnesses  of  Ivan  Andreevitch's 
strange  treatment  of  his  wife.  They  all  loved 
Anna  Pavlovna  passionately,  but  did  not  dare 
to  show  their  love.  She  seemed  of  herself  to 
hold  aloof  from  them.  .  .  .  You  remember  my 
grandfather,  gentlemen ;  to  the  day  of  his 
death  he  always  walked  on  tiptoe,  and  spoke 
in  a  whisper  .  .  .  such  is  the  force  of  habit ! 
My  grandfather  and  his  brother,  Ivan  Ivan- 
ovitch,  were  simple,  good  -  hearted  people, 
quiet  and  depressed.  My  grand'tante  Natalia 
married,  as  you  are  aware,  a  coarse,  dull-witted 
man,  and  all  her  life  she  cherished  an  unutter- 
able, slavish,  sheep-like  passion  for  him.  But 
their  brother  Vassily  was  not  of  that  sort.  I 
believe  I  said  that  Ivan  Andreevitch  had  left 
him  in  Petersburg.  He  was  then  twelve.  His 
father  confided  him  to  the  care  of  a  distant 
kinsman,  a  man  no  longer  young,  a  bachelor, 
and  a  terrible  Voltairean. 

Vassily  grew  up  and  went  into  the  army. 
262 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

He  was  not  tall,  but  was  well-built  and  exceed- 
ingly elegant ;  he  spoke  French  excellently, 
and  was  renowned  for  his  skilful  swordsman- 
ship. He  was  considered  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  young  men  of  the  beginning  of  the 
reign  of  Catherine.  My  father  used  often 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  known  more  than  one 
old  lady  who  could  not  refer  to  Vassily  Ivan- 
ovitch  Lutchinov  without  heartfelt  emotion. 
Picture  to  yourselves  a  man  endowed  with 
exceptional  strength  of  will,  passionate  and 
calculating,  persevering  and  daring,  reserved  in 
the  extreme,  and — according  to  the  testimony 
of  all  his  contemporaries  —  fascinatingly, 
captivatingly  attractive.  He  had  no  con- 
science, no  heart,  no  principle,  though  no  one 
could  have  called  him  positively  a  bad-hearted 
man.  He  was  vain,  but  knew  how  to  disguise 
his  vanity,  and  passionately  cherished  his  in- 
dependence. When  Vassily  Ivanovitch  would 
half  close  his  black  eyes,  smiling  affectionately 
when  he  wanted  to  fascinate  any  one,  they 
say  it  was  imposible  to  resist  him  ;  and  even 
people,  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  coldness 
and  hardness  of  his  heart,  were  more  than 
once  vanquished  by  the  bewitching  power  of 
his  personal  influence.  He  served  his  own 
interests  devotedly,  and  made  other  people, 
too,  work  for  his  advantage ;  and  he  was 
always  successful  in  everything,  because  he 
263 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

never  lost  his  head,  never  disdained  using 
flattery  as  a  means,  and  well  understood  how 
to  use  it. 

Ten  years  after  Ivan  Andreevitch  had  settled 
in  the  country,  he  came  for  a  four  months' 
visit  to  Lutchinovka,  a  brilliant  officer  of  the 
Guards,  and  in  that  time  succeeded  positively 
in  turning  the  head  of  the  grim  old  man,  his 
father.  Strange  to  say,  Ivan  Andreevitch 
listened  with  enjoyment  to  his  son's  stories 
of  some  of  his  conquests.  His  brothers  were 
speechless  in  his  presence,  and  admired  him  as 
a  being  of  a  higher  order.  And  Anna  Pavlovna 
nerself  became  almost  fonder  of  him  than  any 
of  her  other  children  who  were  so  sincerely 
devoted  to  her. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  had  come  down  into  the 
country  primarily  to  visit  his  people,  but  also 
with  the  second  object  of  getting  as  much 
money  as  possible  from  his  father.  He  lived 
sumptuously  in  the  glare  of  publicity  in  Peters- 
burg, and  had  made  a  mass  of  debts.  He  had 
no  easy  task  to  get  round  his  father's  miserli- 
ness, and  though  Ivan  Andreevitch  gave  him 
on  this  one  visit  probably  far  more  money 
than  he  gave  all  his  other  children  together 
during  twenty  years  spent  under  his  roof, 
Vassily  followed  the  well-known  Russian  rule, 
'  Get  what  you  can  ! ' 

Ivan  Andreevitch  had  a  servant  called  Yu- 
264 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

ditch,  just  such  another  tall,  thin,  taciturn  person 
as  his  master.  They  say  that  this  man  Yuditch 
was  partly  responsible  for  Ivan  Andreevitch's 
strange  behaviour  with  Anna  Pavlovna ;  they 
say  he  discovered  my  great- grandmother's 
guilty  intrigue  with  one  of  my  great-grand- 
father's dearest  friends.  Most  likely  Yuditch 
deeply  regretted  his  ill-timed  jealousy,  for  it 
would  be  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  kind- 
hearted  man.  His  memory  is  held  in  venera- 
tion by  all  my  house-serfs  to  this  day.  My 
great-grandfather  put  unbounded  confidence 
in  Yuditch.  In  those  days  landowners  used  to 
have  money,  but  did  not  put  it  into  the  keep- 
ing of  banks,  they  kept  it  themselves  in  chests, 
under  their  floors,  and  so  on.  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch  kept  all  his  money  in  a  great  wrought-iron 
coffer,  which  stood  under  the  head  of  his  bed. 
The  key  of  this  coffer  was  intrusted  to  Yuditch. 
Every  evening  as  he  went  to  bed  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch  used  to  bid  him  open  the  coffer  in  his 
presence,  used  to  tap  in  turn  each  of  the 
tightly  filled  bags  with  a  stick,  and  every 
Saturday  he  would  untie  the  bags  with  Yu- 
ditch, and  carefully  count  over  the  money. 
Vassily  heard  of  all  these  doings,  and  burned 
with  eagerness  to  overhaul  the  sacred  coffer. 
In  the  course  of  five  or  six  days  he  had 
softened  Yuditch,  that  is,  he  had  worked  on 
the  old  man  till,  as  they  say,  he  worshipped 
265 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

the  ground  his  young  master  trod  on.  Having 
thus  duly  prepared  him,  Vassily  put  on  a  care- 
worn and  gloomy  air,  for  a  long  while  refused 
to  answer  Yuditch's  questions,  and  at  last  told 
him  that  he  had  lost  at  play,  and  should  make 
an  end  of  himself  if  he  could  not  get  money 
somehow.  Yuditch  broke  into  sobs,  flung  him- 
self on  his  knees  before  him,  begged  him  to 
think  of  God,  not  to  be  his  own  ruin.  Vassily 
locked  himself  in  his  room  without  uttering  a 
word.  A  little  while  after  he  heard  some  one 
cautiously  knocking  at  his  door  ;  he  opened  it, 
and  saw  in  the  doorway  Yuditch  pale  and 
trembling,  with  the  key  in  his  hand.  Vassily 
took  in  the  whole  position  at  a  glance.  At 
first,  for  a  long  while,  he  refused  to  take  it. 
With  tears  Yuditch  repeated,  '  Take  it,  your 
honour,  graciously  take  it ! '  .  .  .  Vassily  at 
last  agreed.  This  took  place  on  Monday. 
The  idea  occurred  to  Vassily  to  replace  the 
money  taken  out  with  broken  bits  of  crockery. 
He  reckoned  on  Ivan  Andreevitch's  tapping 
the  bags  with  his  stick,  and  not  noticing  the 
hardly  perceptible  difference  in  the  sound,  and 
by  Saturday  he  hoped  to  obtain  and  to  replace 
the  sum  in  the  coffer.  As  he  planned,  so  he 
did.  His  father  did  not,  in  fact,  notice  any- 
thing. But  by  Saturday  Vassily  had  not  pro- 
cured the  money ;  he  had  hoped  to  win  the 
sum  from  a  rich  neighbour  at  cards,  and  in- 
266 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

stead  of  that,  he  lost  it  all.  Meantime, 
Saturday  had  come;  it  came  at  last  to  the 
turn  of  the  bags  filled  with  broken  crocks. 
Picture,  gentlemen,  the  amazement  of  Ivan 
Andreevitch ! 

'  What  does  this  mean  ? '  he  thundered. 

Yuditcli  was  silent. 

'  You  stole  the  money  ?  ' 

*  No,  sir.' 

*  Then  some  one  took  the  key  from  you  ?  ' 

*  I  didn't  give  the  key  to  any  one.' 

'Not  to  any  one?  Well  then,  you  are  the 
thief.     Confess  I ' 

*  I  am  not  a  thief,  Ivan  Andreevitch.' 
'Where  the  devil  did  these  potsherds  come 

from  then?  So  you're  deceiving  me!  For 
the  last  time  I  tell  you — confess  ! ' 

Yuditch  bowed  his  head  and  folded  his  hands 
behind  his  back, 

'Hi,  lads!'  shrieked  Ivan  Andreevitch  in  a 
voice  of  frenzy.     *  A  stick  ! ' 

'What,  beat  .  .  .  me?'   murmured  Yuditch. 

'  Yes,  indeed  !  Are  you  any  better  than  the 
rest?  You  are  a  thief !  O  Yuditch  !  I  never 
expected  such  dishonesty  of  you  ! ' 

*  I  have  grown  grey  in  your  service,  Ivan 
Andreevitch,'  Yuditch  articulated  with  effort. 

'  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  grey  hairs  ? 
Damn  you  and  your  service!' 
The  servants  came  in. 
267 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

*Take  him,  do,  and  give  it  him  thoroughly.' 
Ivan  Andreevitch's  lips  were  white  and  twitch- 
ing. He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  like  a 
wild  beast  in  a  small  cage. 

The  servants  did  not  dare  to  carry  out  his 
orders. 

'Why  are  you  standing  still,  children  of 
Ham?     Am  I  to  undertake  him  myself,  eh?' 

Yuditch  was  moving  towards  the  door  .  .  . 

'Stay!'  screamed  Ivan  Andreevitch.  'Yu- 
ditch, for  the  last  time  I  tell  you,  I  beg  you, 
Yuditch,  confess !' 

'  I  can't ! '  moaned  Yuditch. 

'Then  take  him,  the  sly  old  fox!  Flog 
him  to  death !  His  blood  be  on  my  head  ! ' 
thundered  the  infuriated  old  man.  The  flog- 
ging began.  .  .  .  The  door  suddenly  opened, 
and  Vassily  came  in.  He  was  almost  paler 
than  his  father,  his  hands  were  shaking,  his 
upper  lip  was  lifted,  and  laid  bare  a  row  of 
even,  white  teeth. 

'  I  am  to  blame,'  he  said  in  a  thick  but 
resolute  voice.     '  I  took  the  money.' 

The  servants  stopped. 

'You!  what?  you,  Vaska!  without  Yuditch's 
consent  ? ' 

'  No  ! '  said   Yuditch,  '  with   my  consent.     I 
gave  Vassily  Ivanovitch  the  key  of  my  own 
accord.      Your    honour,    Vassily    Ivanovitch! 
why  does  your  honour  trouble  ? ' 
268 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

'So  this  is  the  thief!'  shrieked  Ivan  Andrce- 
vitch.  'Thanks,  Vassily,  thanks!  But,  Yu- 
ditch,  I  'm  not  going  to  forgive  you  anyway. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  about  it  directly? 
Hey,  you  there!  why  are  you  standing  still? 
do  you  too  resist  my  authority?  Ah,  I  '11  settle 
things  with  you,  my  pretty  gentleman ! '  he 
added,  turning  to  Vassily. 

The  servants  were  again  laying  hands  on 
Yuditch.  .  .  . 

'Don't  touch  him!'  murmured  Vassily  through 
his  teeth.  The  men  did  not  heed  him.  'Back!' 
he  shrieked  and  rushed  upon  them.  .  .  .  They 
stepped  back. 

'  Ah  !  mutiny ! '  moaned  Ivan  Andreevitch, 
and,  raising  his  stick,  he  approached  his  son. 

Vassily  leaped  back,  snatched  at  the  handle 
of  his  sword,  and  bared  it  to  half  its  length. 
Every  one  was  trembling.  Anna  Pavlovna, 
attracted  by  the  noise,  showed  herself  at  the 
door,  pale  and  scared. 

A  terrible  change  passed  over  the  face  of 
Ivan  Andreevitch.  He  tottered,  dropped  the 
stick,  and  sank  heavily  into  an  arm-chair, 
hiding  his  face  in  both  hands.  No  one  stirred, 
all  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  Vassily  like  the 
rest.  He  clutched  the  steel  sword-handle 
convulsively,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  a 
weary,  evil  light.  .  .  , 

'Go,  all  of  you  .  .  .  all,  out,'  Ivan  Andree- 
269 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

vitch  brought  out  in  a  low  voice,  not  taking 
his  hands  from  his  face. 

The  whole  crowd  went  out.  Vassily  stood 
still  in  the  doorway,  then  suddenly  tossed  his 
head,  embraced  Yuditch,  kissed  his  mother's 
hand  .  .  .  and  two  hours  later  he  had  left  the 
place.     He  went  back  to  Petersburg. 

In  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Yuditch  was 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  house  serfs'  hut. 
The  servants  were  all  round  him,  sympathis- 
ing with  him  and  bitterly  reproaching  their 
young  master. 

'That's  enough,  lads,'  he  said  to  them  at 
last,  '  give  over  .  .  .  why  do  you  abuse  him  ? 
He  himself,  the  young  master,  I  dare  say  is 
not  very  happy  at  his  audacity.  .  .  .' 

In  consequence  of  this  incident,  Vassily 
never  saw  his  father  again.  Ivan  Andrcevitch 
died  without  him,  and  died  probably  with  such 
a  load  of  sorrow  on  his  heart  as  God  grant 
none  of  us  may  ever  know.  Vassily  Ivanovitch, 
meanwhile,  went  into  the  world,  enjoyed  him- 
self in  his  own  way,  and  squandered  money 
recklessly.  How  he  got  hold  of  the  money,  I 
cannot  tell  for  certain.  He  had  obtained  a 
French  servant,  a  very  smart  and  intelligent 
fellow,  Bourcier,  by  name.  This  man  was 
passionately  attached  to  him  and  aided  him 
in  all  his  numerous  manoeuvres.  I  do  not 
intend  to  relate  in  detail  all  the  exploits  o{  my 
270 


TIIRFE   PORTRAITS 

grand-uncle ;  he  was  possessed  of  such  un- 
bounded daring,  such  serpent-like  resource, 
such  inconceivable  wiliness,  sucli  a  fine  and 
ready  wit,  that  I  must  own  I  can  understand 
the  com[)lctc  sway  that  unprincipled  person 
exercised  even  over  the  noblest  natures. 

Soon  after  his  father's  death,  in  spite  of 
his  wiliness,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  challenged 
by  an  injured  husband.  He  fought  a  duel, 
seriously  wounded  his  opponent,  and  was 
forced  to  leave  the  capital ;  he  was  banished  to 
his  estate,  and  forbidden  to  leave  it.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  was  thirty  years  old.  You  may 
easily  imagine,  gentlemen,  with  what  feelings 
he  left  the  brilliant  life  in  the  capital  that  he 
was  used  to,  and  came  into  the  country.  They 
say  that  he  got  out  of  the  hooded  cart  several 
times  on  the  road,  flung  himself  face  down- 
wards in  the  snow  and  cried.  No  one  in 
Lutchinovka  would  have  known  him  as  the 
gay  and  charming  Vassily  Ivanovitch  they 
had  seen  before.  He  did  not  talk  to  any  one ; 
went  out  shooting  from  morning  to  night ; 
endured  his  mother's  timid  caresses  with  ur;- 
disguised  impatience,  and  was  merciless  in  his 
ridicule  of  his  brothers,  and  of  their  wives 
(they  were  both  married  by  that  time).  .  .  . 

I  have  not  so  far,  I  think,  told  you  anything 
about  Olga  Ivanovna.  She  had  been  brought 
as  a  tiny  baby  to  Lutchinovka ;  she  all  but 
271 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

died  on  the  road.  Olga  Ivanovna  was  brought 
up,  as  they  say,  in  the  fear  of  God  and  her 
betters.  It  must  be  admitted  that  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch  and  Anna  Pavlovna  both  treated  her  as  a 
daughter.  But  there  lay  hid  in  her  soul  a  faint 
spark  of  that  fire  which  burned  so  fiercely  in 
Vassily  Ivanovitch.  While  Ivan  Andreevitch's 
own  children  did  not  dare  even  to  wonder 
about  the  cause  of  the  strange,  dumb  feud 
between  their  parents,  Olga  was  from  her 
earliest  years  disturbed  and  tormented  by 
Anna  Pavlovna's  position.  Like  Vassily,  she 
loved  independence ;  any  restriction  fretted 
her.  She  was  devoted  with  her  whole  soul  to 
her  benefactress  ;  old  Lutchinov  she  detested, 
and  more  than  once,  sitting  at  table,  she  shot 
such  black  looks  at  him,  that  even  the  servant 
handing  the  dishes  felt  uncomfortable.  Ivan 
Andreevitch  never  noticed  these  glances,  for 
he  never  took  the  slightest  notice  of  his 
family. 

At  first  Anna  Pavlovna  had  tried  to  eradicate 
this  hatred,  but  some  bold  questions  of  Olga's 
forced  her  to  complete  silence.  The  children 
of  Ivan  Andreevitch  adored  Olga,  and  the  old 
lady  too  was  fond  of  her,  but  not  with  a  very 
ardent  affection. 

Long  continued  grieving  had  crushed  all 
cheerfulness  and  every  strong  feeling  in  that 
poor  woman ;  nothing  is  so  clear  a  proof  of 
272 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

Vassily's  captivating  charm  as  that  he  had 
made  even  his  mother  love  him  passionately. 
Demonstrations  of  tenderness  on  the  part  of 
children  were  not  in  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and 
so  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Olga  did 
not  dare  to  express  her  devotion,  though  she 
always  kissed  Anna  Pavlovna's  hand  with 
special  reverence,  when  she  said  good-night  to 
her.  Twenty  years  later,  Russian  girls  began 
to  read  romances  of  the  class  of  The  Adventures 
of  Marquis  Glagol,  Fan/an  and  Lolotta^  Alexey 
or  the  Cottage  in  the  Forest;  they  began  to  play 
the  clavichord  and  to  sing  songs  in  the  style  of 
the  once  very  well-known  : 

'  Men  like  butterflies  in  sunshine 
Flutter  round  us  opening  blossoms,'  etc. 

But  in  the  seventies  of  last  century  (Olga 
Ivanovna  was  born  in  1757)  our  country 
beauties  had  no  notion  of  such  accomplish- 
ments. It  is  difficult  for  us  now  to  form  a 
clear  conception  of  the  Russian  miss  of  those 
days.  We  can  indeed  judge  from  our  grand- 
mothers of  the  degree  of  culture  of  girls  of 
noble  family  in  the  time  of  Catherine  ;  but  how 
is  one  to  distinguish  what  they  had  gradually 
gained  in  the  course  of  their  long  lives  from 
what  they  were  in  the  days  of  their  youth  ? 

Olga   Ivanovna  spoke    French  a   little,   but 
with  a  strong  Russian  accent :  in  her  day  there 
S  273 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

was  as  yet  no  talk  of  French  emigrants.  In 
fact,  with  all  her  fine  qualities,  she  was  still 
pretty  much  of  a  savage,  and  I  dare  say  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  had  more  than  once 
chastised  some  luckless  servant  girl  with  her 
own  hands.  .  .  . 

Some  time  before  Vassily  Ivanovitch's 
arrival,  Olga  Ivanovna  had  been  betrothed  to 
a  neighbour,  Pavel  Afanasievitch  Rogatchov, 
a  very  good-natured  and  straightforward 
fellow.  Nature  had  forgotten  to  put  any  spice 
of  ill-temper  into  his  composition.  His  own 
serfs  did  not  obey  him,  and  would  sometimes 
all  go  off,  down  to  the  least  of  them,  and 
leave  poor  Rogatchov  without  any  dinner  .  .  . 
but  nothing  could  trouble  the  peace  of  his 
soul.  From  his  childhood  he  had  been  stout 
and  indolent,  had  never  been  in  the  govern- 
ment service,  and  was  fond  of  going  to  church 
and  singing  in  the  choir.  Look,  gentlemen, 
at  this  round,  good-natured  face ;  glance  at 
this  mild,  beaming  smile  .  .  .  don't  you  really 
feel  it  reassuring,  yourselves  ?  His  father  used 
at  long  intervals  to  drive  over  to  Lutchinovka, 
and  on  holidays  used  to  bring  with  him  his 
Pavlusha,  whom  the  little  Lutchinovs  teased 
in  every  possible  way.  Pavlusha  grew  up, 
began  driving  over  to  call  on  Ivan  Andreevitch 
on  his  own  account,  fell  in  love  with  Olga 
Ivanovna,  and  offered  her  his  hand  and  heart 
274 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

— not  to  her  personally,  but  to  her  benefactors. 
Her  benefactors  gave  their  consent.  They 
never  even  thought  of  asking  Olga  Ivanovna 
whether  she  Hkecl  Rogatchov.  In  those  days, 
in  the  words  of  my  grandmother,  'such  refine- 
ments were  not  the  thing.'  Olga  soon 
got  used  to  her  betrothed,  however  ;  it 
was  impossible  not  to  feel  fond  of  such  a 
gentle  and  amiable  creature.  Rogatchov  had 
received  no  education  whatever;  his  French 
consisted  of  the  one  word  bonjour,  and  he 
secretly  considered  c\cn  that  word  improper. 
But  some  jocose  person  had  taught  him  the 
following  lines,  as  a  French  song  :  '  Sonitchka, 
Sonitchka  !  Ke-voole-voo-de-mvva — I  adore 
you — me-je-ne-pyoo-pa.  .  .  .'  This  supposed 
song  he  always  used  to  hum  to  himself  when 
he  felt  in  good  spirits.  His  father  was  also 
a  man  of  incredible  good-nature,  always  wore 
a  long  nankin  coat,  and  whatever  was  said  to 
him  he  responded  with  a  smile.  From  the 
time  of  Pavel  Afanasievitch's  betrothal,  both  the 
Rogatchovs,  father  and  son,  had  been  tremend- 
ously busy.  They  had  been  having  their  house 
entirely  transformed  adding  various  'galleries,' 
talking  in  a  friendly  way  with  the  workmen, 
encouraging  them  with  drinks.  They  had  not 
yet  completed  all  these  additions  by  the  winter; 
they  put  off  the  wedding  till  the  summer.  In  the 
summer  Ivan  Andreevitch  died  ;  the  wedding 
275 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

was  deferred  till  the  following  spring.  In  the 
winter  Vassily  Ivanovitch  arrived.  Rogatchov 
was  presented  to  him  ;  he  received  him  coldly 
and  contemptuously,  and  as  time  went  on,  he 
so  alarmed  him  by  his  haughty  behaviour  that 
poor  Rogatchov  trembled  like  a  leaf  at  the 
very  sight  of  him,  was  tongue-tied  and  smiled 
nervously.  Vassily  once  almost  annihilated 
him  altogether — by  making  him  a  bet,  that 
he,  Rogatchov,  was  not  able  to  stop  smiling. 
Poor  Pavel  Afanasievitch  almost  cried  with 
embarrassment,  but  —  actually!  —  a  smile,  a 
stupid,  nervous  smile  refused  to  leave  his 
perspiring  face !  Vassily  toyed  deliberately 
with  the  ends  of  his  neckerchief,  and  looked 
at  him  with  supreme  contempt.  Pavel  Afan- 
asievitch's  father  heard  too  of  Vassily's 
presence,  and  after  an  interval  of  a  few  days 
— 'for  the  sake  of  greater  formality' — he  sallied 
off  to  Lutchinovka  with  the  object  of  felicitat- 
ing our  honoured  guest  on  his  advent  to  the 
halls  of  his  ancestors.'  Afanasey  Lukitch  was 
famed  all  over  the  countryside  for  his  eloquence 
— that  is  to  say,  for  his  capacity  for  enunciating 
without  faltering  a  rather  long  and  complicated 
speech,  with  a  sprinkling  of  bookish  phrases  in 
it.  Alas !  on  this  occasion  he  did  not  sustain 
his  reputation  ;  he  was  even  more  disconcerted 
than  his  son,  Pavel  Afanasievitch  ;  he  mumbled 
something  quite  inarticulate,  and  thougii  he 
276 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

had  never  been  used  to  taking  vodka,  he  at 
once  drained  a  glass  'to  carry  things  off — he 
fijund  Vassily  at  lunch, — tried  at  least  to  clear 
his  throat  with  some  dignity,  and  did  not 
succeed  in  making  the  slightest  sound.  On 
their  way  home,  Pavel  Afanasicvitch  whispered 
to  his  parent,  'Well,  father?'  Afanasey  Lukitch 
responded  angrily  also  in  a  whisper,  '  Don't 
speak  of  it ! ' 

The  Rogatchovs  began  to  be  less  frequent 
visitors  at  Lutchinovka.  Though  indeed  they 
were  not  the  only  people  intimidated  by 
Vassily ;  he  awakened  in  his  own  brothers,  in 
their  wives,  in  Anna  Pavlovna  herself,  an 
instinctive  feeling  of  uneasiness  and  discom- 
fort .  .  .  they  tried  to  avoid  him  in  every 
way  they  could.  Vassily  must  have  noticed 
this,  but  apparently  had  no  intention  of  alter- 
ing his  behaviour  to  them.  Suddenly,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  spring,  he  became  once 
more  the  charming,  attractive  person  they 
had  known  of  old  .  .  . 

The  first  symptom  of  this  sudden  transfor- 
mation was  Vassily 's  unexpected  visit  to  the 
Rogatchovs.  Afanasey  Lukitch,  in  particular, 
was  fairly  disconcerted  at  the  sight  of  Lutch- 
inov's  carriage,  but  his  dismay  very  quickly 
vanished.  Never  had  Vassily  been  more 
courteous  and  delightful.  He  took  young 
Rogatchov  by  the  arm,  went  with  him  to  look 
277 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

at  the  new  buildings,  talked  to  the  carpenters, 
made  some  suggestions,  with  his  own  hands 
chopped  a  few  chips  off  with  the  axe,  asked 
to  be  shown  Afanascy  Lukitch's  stud  horses, 
himself  trotted  them  out  on  a  halter,  and 
altogether  so  affected  the  good-hearted  chil- 
dren of  the  steppes  by  his  gracious  affability 
that  they  both  embraced  him  more  than  once. 
At  home,  too,  Vassily  managed,  in  the  course 
of  a  few  days,  to  turn  every  one's  head  just  as 
before.  He  contrived  all  sorts  of  laughable 
games,  got  hold  of  musicians,  invited  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood,  told  the 
old  ladies  the  scandals  of  the  town  in  the  most 
amusing  way,  flirted  a  little  with  the  young 
ones,  invented  unheard-of  diversions,  fireworks 
and  such  things,  in  short,  he  put  life  into  every 
thing  and  every  one.  The  melancholy,  gloomy 
house  of  the  Lutchinovs  was  suddenly  con- 
verted into  a  noisy,  brilliant,  enchanted  palace 
of  which  the  whole  countryside  was  talking. 
This  sudden  transformation  surprised  many 
and  delighted  all.  All  sorts  of  rumours  began 
to  be  whispered  about.  Sagacious  persons 
opined  that  Vassily  Ivanovitch  had  till  then 
been  crushed  under  the  weight  of  some  secret 
trouble,  that  he  saw  chances  of  returning  to 
the  capital  .  .  .  but  the  true  cause  of  Vassily 
Ivanovitch's  metamorphosis  was  guessed  by 
no  one. 

278 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

Olga  Ivanovna,  gentlemen,  was  rather  pretty ; 
though  her  beauty  consisted  rather  in  the 
extraordinary  softness  and  freshness  of  her 
shape,  in  the  quiet  grace  of  her  movements  than 
in  the  strict  regularity  of  her  features.  Nature 
had  bestowed  on  her  a  certain  independence  ; 
her  bringing  up — she  had  grown  up  without 
father  or  mother — had  developed  in  her  reserve 
and  determination.  Olga  did  not  belong  to 
the  class  of  quiet  and  tame-spirited  young 
ladies  ;  but  only  one  feeling  had  reached  its 
full  possibilities  in  her  as  yet — hatred  for  her 
benefactor.  Other  more  feminine  passions 
might  indeed  flare  up  in  Olga  Ivanovna's 
heart  with  abnormal  and  painful  violence  ,  .  . 
but  she  had  not  the  cold  pride,  nor  the  intense 
strength  of  will,  nor  the  self-centred  egoism, 
without  which  any  passion  passes  quickly 
away. 

The  first  rush  of  feeling  in  such  half-active, 
half-passive  natures  is  sometimes  extremely 
violent ;  but  they  give  way  very  quickly,  especi- 
ally when  it  is  a  question  of  relentless  con- 
formity with  accepted  principles  ;  they  are 
afraid  of  consequences.  .  .  .  And  yet,  gentle- 
men, I  will  frankly  confess,  women  of  that  sort 
always  make  the  strongest  impression  on  me. 
.  .  .  (At  these  words  the  speaker  drank  a  glass 
of  water.  Rubbish  !  rubbish  !  thought  I,  look- 
ing at  his  round  chin  ;  nothing  in  the  world 
279 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

makes  a  strong  impression  on  you,  my  dear 
fellow !) 

Piotr  Fedoritch  resumed  :  Gentlemen,  I 
believe  in  blood,  in  race.  Olga  Ivanovna  had 
more  blood  than,  for  instance,  her  foster  sister, 
Natalia.  How  did  this  blood  show  itself,  do 
you  ask?  Why,  in  everything;  in  the  lines 
of  her  hands,  in  her  lips,  in  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  in  her  glance,  in  her  carriage,  in  her  hair, 
in  the  very  folds  of  her  gown.  In  all  these 
trifles  there  lay  hid  something  special,  though 
I  am  bound  to  admit  that  the  —  how  can 
one  express  it  ?  —  la  distinction^  which  had 
fallen  to  Olga  Pavlovna's  share  would  not  have 
attracted  Vassily's  notice  had  he  met  her  in 
Petersburg.  But  in  the  country,  in  the  wilds, 
she  not  only  caught  his  attention,  she  was 
positively  the  sole  cause  of  the  transformation 
of  which  I  have  just  been  speaking. 

Consider  the  position.  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
liked  to  enjoy  life ;  he  could  not  but  be  bored 
in  the  country  ;  his  brothers  were  good-natured 
fellows,  but  extremely  limited  people :  he  had 
nothing  in  common  with  them.  His  sister, 
Natalia,  with  the  assistance  of  her  husband, 
had  brought  into  the  world  in  the  course  of 
three  years  no  less  than  four  babies ;  between 
her  and  Vassily  was  a  perfect  gulf.  .  .  .  Anna 
Pavlovna  went  to  church,  prayed,  fasted,  and 
was  preparing  herself  for  death.  There  re- 
280 


THREF    PORTRAITS 

mained  only  Olga — a  fresh,  shy,  pretty  girl.  .  .  . 
Vassily  did  not  notice  her  at  first  ...  in- 
deed, who  docs  notice  a  dependant,  an  orphan 
girl  kept  from  charity  in  the  house  ?  .  .  .  One 
day,  at  the  very  beginning  of  spring,  Vassily 
was  walking  about  the  garden,  and  with  his 
cane  slashing  off  the  heads  of  the  dandelions, 
those  stupid  yellow  flowers,  which  come  out 
first  in  such  numbers  in  the  meadows,  as 
soon  as  they  begin  to  grow  green.  He  was 
walking  in  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house ; 
he  lifted  his  head,  and  caught  sight  of  Olga 
Ivanovna. 

She  was  sitting  sideways  at  the  window, 
dreamily  stroking  a  tabby  kitten,  who,  purring 
and  blinking,  nestled  on  her  lap,  and  with  great 
satisfaction  held  up  her  little  nose  into  the 
rather  hot  spring  sunshine.  Olga  Ivanovna 
was  wearing  a  white  morning  gown,  with  short 
sleeves ;  her  bare,  pale-pink,  girlish  shoulders 
and  arms  were  a  picture  of  freshness  and  health. 
A  little  red  cap  discreetly  restrained  her  thick, 
soft,  silky  curls.  Her  face  was  a  little  flushed  ; 
she  was  only  just  awake.  Her  slender,  flexible 
neck  bent  forward  so  charmingly  ;  there  was 
such  seductive  negligence,  such  modesty  in  the 
restful  pose  of  her  figure,  free  from  corsets, 
that  Vassily  Ivanovitch  (a  great  connoisseur!) 
halted  involuntarily  and  peeped  in.  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  Olga  Ivanovna  ought  not 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

to  be  left  in  her  primitive  ignorance  ;  that  she 
miglit  with  time  be  turned  into  a  very  sweet 
and  charming  woman.  He  stole  up  to  the 
window,  stretched  up  on  tiptoe,  and  imprinted 
a  silent  kiss  on  Olga  Ivanovna's  smooth,  white 
arm,  a  little  below  the  elbow. 

Olga  shrieked  and  jumped  up,  the  kitten  put 
its  tail  in  the  air  and  leaped  into  the  garden. 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  with  a  smile  kept  her  by 
the  arm.  .  .  .  Olga  flushed  all  over,  to  her  ears ; 
he  began  to  rally  her  on  her  alarm  .  ,  .  invited 
her  to  come  a  walk  with  him.  But  Olga 
Ivanovna  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
negligence  of  her  attire,  and  *  swifter  than  the 
swift  red  deer '  she  slipped  away  into  the  next 
room. 

The  very  same  day  Vassily  set  ofif  to  the 
Rogatchovs.  He  was  suddenly  happy  and 
light-hearted.  Vassily  was  not  in  love  with 
Olga,  no!  the  word  'love'  is  not  to  be  used 
lightly.  .  .  .  He  had  found  an  occupation,  had 
set  himself  a  task,  and  rejoiced  with  the  delight 
of  a  man  of  action.  He  did  not  even  remember 
that  she  was  his  mother's  ward,  and  another 
man's  betrothed.  He  never  for  one  instant 
deceived  himself;  he  was  fully  aware  that  it 
was  not  for  her  to  be  his  wife.  .  .  .  Possibly 
there  was  passion  to  excuse  him — not  a  very 
elevated  nor  noble  passion,  truly,  but  still 
a  fairly  strong  and  tormenting  passion.  Of 
282 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

course  he  was  not  in  love  like  a  boy ;  he  did 
not  give  way  to  vacjue  ecstasies  ;  he  knew  very 
well  what  he  wanted  and  what  he  was  striving 
for. 

Viissily  was  a  perfect  master  of  the  art  of 
winning  over,  in  the  shortest  time,  any  one 
however  shy  or  prejudiced  against  him.  Olga 
soon  ceased  to  be  shy  with  him.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  led  her  into  a  new  world.  He 
ordered  a  clavichord  for  her,  gave  her  music 
lessons  (he  himself  played  fairly  well  on  the 
flute),  read  books  aloud  to  her,  had  long  con- 
versations with  her.  .  .  .  The  poor  child  of  the 
steppes  soon  had  her  head  turned  completely. 
Vassily  dominated  her  entirely.  He  knew 
how  to  tell  her  of  what  had  been  till  then 
unknown  to  her,  and  to  tell  her  in  a  language 
she  could  understand.  Olga  little  by  little 
gained  courage  to  express  all  her  feelings  to 
him  :  he  came  to  her  aid,  helped  her  out  with 
the  words  she  could  not  find,  did  not  alarm 
her,  at  one  moment  kept  her  back,  at  another 
encouraged  her  confidences.  .  .  .  Vassily 
busied  himself  with  her  education  from  no 
disinterested  desire  to  awaken  and  develop 
her  talents.  He  simply  wanted  to  draw  her 
a  little  closer  to  himself;  and  he  knew  too  that 
an  innocent,  shy,  but  vain  young  girl  is  more 
easily  seduced  through  the  mind  than  the 
heart.  Even  if  Olga  had  been  an  exceptional 
283 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

being,  Vassily  would  never  have  perceived  it, 
for  he  treated  her  like  a  child.  But  as  you  are 
aware,  gentlemen,  there  was  nothing  specially 
remarkable  in  Olga.  Vassily  tried  all  he 
could  to  work  on  her  imagination,  and  often 
in  the  evening  she  left  his  side  with  such  a 
whirl  of  new  images,  phrases  and  ideas  in  her 
head  that  she  could  not  sleep  all  night,  but 
lay  breathing  uneasily  and  turning  her  burning 
cheeks  from  side  to  side  on  the  cool  pillows, 
or  got  up,  went  to  the  window  and  gazed 
fearfully  and  eagerly  into  the  dark  distance. 
Vassily  filled  every  moment  of  her  life  ;  she 
could  not  think  of  any  one  else.  As  for  Roga- 
tchov,  she  soon  positively  ceased  to  notice  his 
existence.  Vassily  had  the  tact  and  shrewd- 
ness not  to  talk  to  Olga  in  his  presence ; 
but  he  either  made  him  laugh  till  he  was 
ready  to  cry,  or  arranged  some  noisy  enter- 
tainment, a  riding  expedition,  a  boating  party 
by  night  with  torches  and  music — he  did  not 
in  fact  let  Pavel  Afanasievitch  have  a  chance 
to  think  clearly. 

But  in  spite  of  all  Vassily  Ivanovitch's  tact, 
Rogatchov  dimly  felt  that  he,  Olga's  betrothed 
and  future  husband,  had  somehow  become 
as  it  were  an  outsider  to  her  .  .  .  but  in  the 
boundless  goodness  of  his  heart,  he  was  afraid 
of  wounding  her  by  reproaches,  though  he 
sincerely  loved  her  and  prized  her  affection. 
284 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

When  left  alone  with  her,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  and  only  tried  all  he  could  to 
follow  her  wishes.  Two  months  passed  by. 
Every  trace  of  self-reliance,  of  will,  disappeared 
at  last  in  Olga.  Rogatchov,  feeble  and 
tongue-tied,  could  be  no  support  to  her.  She 
had  no  wish  even  to  resist  the  enchantment, 
and  with  a  sinking  heart  she  surrendered 
unconditionally  to  Vassily.  .  .  . 

Olga  Ivanovna  may  very  likely  then  have 
known  something  of  the  bliss  of  love ;  but  it 
was  not  for  long.  Though  Vassily — for  lack 
of  other  occupation — did  not  drop  her,  and 
even  attached  himself  to  her  and  looked  aftci" 
her  fondly,  Olga  herself  was  so  utterly  dis- 
traught that  she  found  no  happiness  even 
in  love  and  yet  could  not  tear  herself  away 
from  Vassily.  She  began  to  be  frightened 
at  everything,  did  not  dare  to  think,  could 
talk  of  nothing,  gave  up  reading,  and  was 
devoured  by  misery.  Sometimes  Vassily 
succeeded  in  carrying  her  along  with  him  and 
making  her  forget  everything  and  every  one. 
But  the  very  next  day  he  would  find  her  pale 
speechless,  with  icy  hands,  and  a  fixed  smile 
on  her  lips.  .  .  .  There  followed  a  time  of 
some  difficulty  for  Vassily;  but  no  difficulties 
could  dismay  him.  He  concentrated  himself 
like  a  skilled  gambler.  He  could  not  in  the 
least  rely  upon  Olga  Ivanovna ;  she  was 
28s 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

continually  betraying  herself,  turning  pale, 
blushing,  weeping  .  .  .  her  new  part  was 
utterly  beyond  her  powers.  Vassily  toiled 
for  two :  in  his  restless  and  boisterous  gaiety, 
only  an  experienced  observer  could  have 
detected  something  strained  and  feverish. 
He  played  his  brothers,  sisters,  the  Roga- 
tchovs,  the  neighbours,  like  pawns  at  chess. 
He  was  everlastingly  on  the  alert.  Not  a 
single  glance,  a  single  movement,  was  lost  on 
him,  yet  he  appeared  the  most  heedless  of 
men.  Every  morning  he  faced  the  fray,  and 
every  evening  he  scored  a  victory.  He  was 
not  the  least  oppressed  by  such  a  fearful 
strain  of  activity.  He  slept  four  hours  out  of 
the  twenty-four,  ate  very  little,  and  was  healthy, 
fresh,  and  good-humoured. 

Meantime  the  wedding-day  was  approach- 
ing. Vassily  succeeded  in  persuading  Pavel 
Afanasievitch  himself  of  the  necessity  of  delay. 
Then  he  despatched  him  to  Moscow  to  make 
various  purchases,  while  he  was  himself  in 
correspondence  with  friends  in  Petersburg. 
He  took  all  this  trouble,  not  so  much  from 
sympathy  for  Olga  Ivanovna,  as  from  a 
natural  bent  and  liking  for  bustle  and  agita- 
tion. .  .  .  Besides,  he  was  beginning  to  be 
sick  of  Olga  Ivanovna,  and  more  than  once 
after  a  violent  outbreak  of  passion  for  her,  he 
would  look  at  her,  as  he  sometimes  did  at 
286 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

Rogatchov.  Lutchinov  always  remained  a 
riddle  to  every  one.  In  the  coldness  of  his 
relentless  soul  you  felt  the  presence  of  a 
strange  almost  southern  fire,  and  even  in  the 
wildest  glow  of  passion  a  breath  of  icy  chill 
seemed  to  come  from  the  man. 

Before  other  people  he  supported  Olga 
Ivanovna  as  before.  But  when  they  were 
alone,  he  played  with  her  like  a  cat  with  a 
mouse,  or  frightened  her  with  sophistries,  or 
was  wearily,  malignantly  bored,  or  again  flung 
himself  at  her  feet,  swept  her  away,  like  a 
straw  in  a  hurricane  .  .  .  and  there  was  no 
feigning  at  such  moments  in  his  passion  .  ,  . 
he  really  was  moved  himself. 

One  day,  rather  late  in  the  evening,  Vassily 
was  sitting  alone  in  his  room,  attentively 
reading  over  the  last  letters  he  had  received 
from  Petersburg,  when  suddenly  he  heard  a 
faint  creak  at  the  door,  and  Olga  Ivanovna's 
maid,  Palashka,  came  in. 

'  What  do  you  want  ? '  Vassily  asked  her 
rather  crossly. 

*  My  mistress  begs  you  to  come  to  her.' 

'  I  can't  just  now.  Go  along.  .  .  .  Well 
what  are  you  standing  there  for?'  he  went 
on,  seeing  that  Palashka  did  not  go  away. 

*  My  mistress  told  me  to  say  that  she  -very 
particularly  wants  to  see  you,'  she  said. 

*  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? ' 

287 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

'  Would  your  honour  please  to  see  for  your- 
self. .  .  .  ' 

Vassily  got  up,  angrily  flung  the  letters  into 
a  drawer,  and  went  in  to  Olga  Ivanovna.  She 
was  sitting  alone  in  a  corner,  pale  and  passive. 

'  What  do  you  want  ? '  he  asked  her,  not 
quite  politely. 

Olga  looked  at  him  and  closed  her  eyes. 

'  What 's  the  matter  ?  what  is  it,  Olga  ? ' 

He  took  her  hand  ....  Olga  Ivanovna's 
hand  was  cold  as  ice  .  .  .  She  tried  to  speak  .  .  . 
and  her  voice  died  away.  The  poor  woman 
had  no  possible  doubt  of  her  condition  left 
her. 

Vassily  was  a  little  disconcerted.  Olga 
Ivanovna's  room  was  a  couple  of  steps  from 
Anna  Pavlovna's  bedroom.  Vassily  cautiously 
sat  down  by  Olga,  kissed  and  chafed  her  hands, 
comforted  her  in  whispers.  She  listened  to 
him,  and  silently,  faintly,  shuddered.  In  the 
doorway  stood  Palashka,  stealthily  wiping  her 
eyes.  In  the  next  room  they  heard  tlie  heavy, 
even  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  the  breathing 
of  some  one  asleep.  Olga  Ivanovna's  numb- 
ness dissolved  at  last  into  tears  and  stifled 
sobs.  Tears  are  like  a  storm  ;  after  them  one 
is  always  calmer.  When  Olga  Ivanovna  had 
quieted  down  a  little,  and  only  sobbed  con- 
vulsively at  intervals,  like  a  child,  Vassily 
knelt  before  her  with  caresses  and  tender  pro- 
288 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

mises,  soothed  her  completely,  gave  her  some- 
thing to  drink,  put  her  to  bed,  and  went  away. 
He  did  not  undress  all  night  ;  wrote  two  or 
three  letters,  burnt  two  or  three  papers,  took 
out  a  gold  locket  containing  the  portrait  of  a 
black-browed,  black-eyed  woman  with  a  bold, 
voluptuous  face,  scrutinised  her  features  slowly, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  pondering. 
Next  day,  at  breakfast,  he  saw  with  extreme 
displeasure  poor  Olga's  red  and  swollen  eyes 
and  pale,  agitated  face.  After  breakfast  he 
proposed  a  stroll  in  the  garden  to  her.  Olga 
followed  Vassily,  like  a  submissive  sheep. 
When  two  hours  afterwards  she  came  in  from 
the  garden  she  quite  broke  down  ;  she  told 
Anna  Pavlovna  she  was  unwell,  and  went  to 
lie  down  on  her  bed.  During  their  walk 
Vassily  had,  with  a  suitable  show  of  remorse, 
informed  her  that  he  was  secretly  married — 
he  was  really  as  much  a  bachelor  as  I  am. 
Olga  Ivanovna  did  not  fall  into  a  swoon — 
people  don't  fall  into  swoons  except  on  the 
stage — but  she  turned  all  at  once  stony,  though 
she  herself  was  so  far  from  hoping  to  marry 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  that  she  was  even  afraid  to 
think  about  it.  Vassily  had  begun  to  explain 
to  her  the  inevitableness  of  her  parting  from 
him  and  marrying  Rogatchov.  Olga  Ivanovna 
looked  at  him  in  dumb  horror.  Vassily  talked 
in  a  cool,  business-like,  practical  way,  blamed 

T  289 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

himself,  expressed  his  regret,  but  concluded  all 
his  remarks  with  the  following  words:  '  There's 
no  going  back  on  the  past ;  we  've  got  to  act.' 

Olga  was  utterly  overwhelmed  ;  she  was 
filled  with  terror  and  shame  ;  a  dull,  heavy 
despair  came  upon  her ;  she  longed  for  death, 
and  waited  in  agony  for  Vassily's  decision. 

*We  must  confess  everything  to  my  mother,' 
he  said  to  her  at  last. 

Olga  turned  deadly  pale ;  her  knees  shook 
under  her. 

'Don't  be  afraid,  don't  be  afraid,'  repeated 
Vassily,  *  trust  to  me,  I  won't  desert  you  ...  I 
will  make  everything  right  .  .  .  rely  upon  me.' 

The  poor  woman  looked  at  him  with  love 
.  .  yes,  with  love,  and  deep,  but  hopeless 
devotion. 

'  I  will  arrange  everything,  everything,' 
Vassily  said  to  her  at  parting  .  .  .  and  for  the 
last  time  he  kissed  her  chilly  hands.  .  .  . 

Next  morning — Olga  Ivanovna  had  only  just 
risen  from  her  bed — her  door  opened  .  .  .  and 
Anna  Pavlovna  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She 
was  supported  by  Vassily.  In  silence  she  got 
as  far  as  an  arm-chair,  and  in  silence  she  sat 
down.  Vassily  stood  at  her  side.  He  looked 
composed ;  his  brows  were  knitted  and  his 
lips  slightly  parted.  Anna  Pavlovna,  pale,  in- 
dignant, angry,  tried  to  speak,  but  her  voice 
failed  her.  Olga  Ivanovna  glanced  in  horror 
290 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

from  her  benefactress  to  her  lover,  with  a 
terrible  sinking  at  her  heart  .  .  .  she  fell  on 
her  knees  with  a  shriek  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

'Then  it's  true  ...  is  it  true?'  murmured 
Anna  Pavlovna,  and  bent  down  to  her.  .  .  . 
'  Answer  ! '  she  went  on  harshly,  clutching  Olga 
by  the  arm. 

'Mother!'  rang  out  Vassily's  brazen  voice, 
'you  promised  me  not  to  be  hard  on  her.' 

*  I  want  .  . .  confess  .  .  .  confess  ...  is  it  true? 
is  it  true  ?  ' 

'  Mother  .  .  .  remember  .  .  .  '  Vassily  began 
deliberately. 

This  one  word  moved  Anna  Pavlovna  greatly. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  burst  into 
sobs. 

Olga  Ivanovna  softly  raised  her  head,  and 
would  have  flung  herself  at  the  old  lady's  feet, 
but  Vassily  kept  her  back,  raised  her  from 
the  ground,  and  led  her  to  another  arm-chair. 
Anna  Pavlovna  went  on  weeping  and  mutter- 
ing disconnected  words.  .  .  . 

'  Come,  mother,'  began  Vassily,  '  don't 
torment  yourself,  the  trouble  may  yet  be  set 
right.      .  .  If  Rogatchov  .  .  .' 

Olga  Ivanovna  shuddered,  and  drew  her- 
self up. 

'If  Rogatchov,'  pursued  Vassily,  with  a 
meaning  glance  at  Olga  Ivanovna,  'imagines 
291 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

that  he  can  disgrace  an  honourable  family 
with  impunity  .  .  . ' 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  overcome  with  horror. 

'  In  my  house,'  moaned  Anna  Pavlovna. 

'  Calm  yourself,  mother.  He  took  advantage 
of  her  innocence,  her  youth,  he — you  wish 
to  say  something' — he  broke  off,  seeing  that 
Olga  made  a  movement  towards  him.  .  .  . 

Olga  Ivanovna  sank  back  in  her  chair. 

'  I  will  go  at  once  to  Rogatchov.  I  will 
make  him  marry  her  this  very  day.  You  may 
be  sure  I  will  not  let  him  make  a  laughing- 
stock of  us.  .  .  . ' 

*  But  .  .  .  Vassily  Ivanovitch  .  .  .  you  .  .  .' 
whispered  Olga. 

He  gave  her  a  prolonged,  cold  stare.  She 
sank  into  silence  again. 

'  Mother,  give  me  your  word  not  to  worry 
her  before  I  return.  Look,  she  is  half  dead. 
And  you,  too,  must  rest.  Rely  upon  me ;  I 
answer  for  everything  ;  in  any  case,  wait  till  I 
return.  I  tell  you  again,  don't  torture  her,  or 
yourself,  and  trust  to  me.' 

He  went  to  the  door  and  stopped.  '  Mother,' 
said  he,  *  come  with  me,  leave  her  alone,  I  beg 
of  you.' 

Anna  Pavlovna  got  up,  went  up  to  the  holy 

picture,  bowed  down  to  the  ground,  and  slowly 

followed    her   son.      Olga    Ivanovna,    without 

a  word   or   a   movement,    looked    after    them, 

292 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

Vassily  turned  back  quickly,  snatched  her 
hand,  whispered  in  her  ear,  '  Rely  on  me,  and 
don't  betray  us,'  and  at  once  withdrew,  .  .  . 
'Bourcier!'  he  called,  running  swiftly  down 
the  stairs,  *  Bourcier ! ' 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  sitting  in 
his  carriage  with  his  valet. 

That  day  the  elder  Rogatchovwas  not  at  home. 
He  had  gone  to  the  district  town  to  buy  cloth 
for  the  liveries  of  his  servants.  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch  was  sitting  in  his  own  room,  looking 
through  a  collection  of  faded  butterflies.  With 
lifted  eyebrows  and  protruding  lips,  he  was 
carefully,  with  a  pin,  turning  over  the  fragile 
wings  of  a  '  night  sphinx '  moth,  when  he  was 
suddenly  aware  of  a  small  but  heavy  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  round.  Vassily 
stood  before  him. 

'Good-morning,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,' he  said 
in  some  amazement. 

Vassily  looked  at  him,  and  sat  down  on  a 
chaii  facing  him. 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  was  about  to  smile  .  .  . 
but  he  glanced  at  Vassily,  and  subsided  with 
his  mouth  open  and  his  hands  clasped. 

'  Tell  me,  Pavel  Afanasievitch,'  said  Vassily 
suddenly,  '  are  you  meaning  to  dance  at  your 
wedding  soon  ? ' 

'  I  ?  .  .  .  soon  ...  of  course  ,  .  .  for 
my  part  .  .  .  though  as  you  and  your  sister 
293 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

...    I,    for    my    part,   am    ready   to-morrow 
even.' 

'  Very  good,  very  good.  You  're  a  very  im- 
patient person,  Pavel  Afanasievitch.' 

'  How  so  ? ' 

*  Let  me  tell  you,'  pursued  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch,  getting  up,  '  I  know  all ;  you  understand 
me,  and  I  order  you  without  delay  to-morrow 
to  marry  Olga.' 

'  Excuse  me,  excuse  me,'  objected  Rogatchov, 
not  rising  from  his  seat ;  '  you  order  me.  I 
sought  Olga  Ivanovna's  hand  of  myself  and 
there's  no  need  to  give  me  orders.  ...  I 
confess,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  I  don't  quite 
understand  you.' 

'  You  don't  understand  me  ? ' 

'  No,  really,  I  don't  understand  you.' 

'  Do  you  give  me  your  word  to  marry  her 
to-morrow  ? ' 

'  Why,  mercy  on  us,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  .  .  . 
haven't  you  yourself  put  off  our  wedding  more 
than  once?  Except  for  you  it  would  have 
taken  place  long  ago.  And  now  I  have  no  idea 
of  breaking  it  off.  What  is  the  meaning  of 
your  threats,  your  insistence  ?  ' 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  wiped  the  sweat  off  his 
face. 

'  Do  you  give  me  your  word  ?  Say  yes  or 
no!'  Vassily  repeated  emphatically. 

'  Excuse  me  ...  I  will  .  .  .  but  .  .  .' 
294 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

*  Very  good.  Remember  then  .  .  .  She  has 
confessed  everything.' 

'  Who  has  confessed  ? ' 

*  Olga  Ivanovna.' 

'Why,  what  has  she  confessed?' 

'  Why,  what  are  you  pretending  to  me  for, 
Pavel  Afanasievitch  ?  I  'm  not  a  stranger  to 
you.' 

'What  am  I  pretending?  I  don't  understand 
you,  I  don't,  1  positively  don't  understand  a 
word.     What  could  Olga  Ivanovna  confess?' 

*  What  ?  You  are  really  too  much  !  You 
know  what.' 

'  May  God  slay  me  .  .  .' 

'  No,  I  '11  slay  you,  if  you  don't  marry  her 
...  do  you  understand  ?  ' 

'What!  .  .  .'  Pavel  Afanasievitch  jumped  up 
and  stood  facing  Vassily.  *  Olga  Ivanovna  .  .  . 
you  tell  me  .  .  .' 

'You're  a  clever  fellow,  you  are,  I  must 
own' — Vassily  with  a  smile  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder — '  though  you  do  look  so  innocent.' 

'  Good  God  !  .  .  .  You  '11  send  me  out  of  my 
mind.  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean,  explain,  for 
God's  sake ! ' 

Vassily  bent  down  and  whispered  something 
in  his  ear. 

Rogatchov  cried  out,  '  What!  ...  I?' 

Vassily  stamped. 

'  Olga  Ivanovna  ?     Olga  ?  .  .  .' 
295 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

'Yes  .  .  .  your  betrothed  .  .  .' 

'  My  betrothed  .  .  .  Vassily  Ivanovitch  .  .  . 
she  .  .  .  she  .  .  .  Why,  I  never  wish  to  see 
her  again,'  cried  Pavel  Afanasievitch.  '  Good- 
bye to  her  for  ever  !  What  do  you  take  me  for  ? 
I  'm  being  duped  ...  I  'm  being  duped  .  .  . 
Olga  Ivanovna,  how  wrong  of  you,  have  you 
no  shame?  .  .  .'  (Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes.) 
'Thanks,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  thanks  very  much 
...  I  never  wish  to  see  her  again  now !  no ! 
no !  don't  speak  of  her.  .  .  .  Ah,  merciful 
Heavens !  to  think  I  have  lived  to  see  this ! 
Oh,  very  well,  very  well ! ' 

'That's  enough  nonsense,'  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch observed  coldly.  '  Remember,  you  've 
given  me  your  word:  the  wedding's  to-morrow.' 

'No,  that  it  won't  be  I  Enough  of  that, 
Vassily  Ivanovitch.  I  say  again,  what  do  you 
take  me  for?  You  do  me  too  much  honour. 
I  'm  humbly  obliged.     Excuse  me.' 

'  As  you  please ! '  retorted  Vassily.  '  Get 
your  sword.' 

'  Sword  .  .  .  what  for  ? ' 

'What  for?  .  .  .  I  '11  show  you  what  for.' 

Vassily  drew  out  his  fine,  flexible  French 
sword  and  bent  it  a  little  against  the  floor. 

*  You  want  ...  to  fight  .  .  .  me  ? ' 

'  Precisely  so.' 

'  But,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  put  yourself  in  my 
place  !  How  can  I,  only  think,  after  what  you 
296 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

have  just  told  me.  .  .  .  I  'm  a  man  of  honour, 
Vassily  Ivanovitch,  a  nobleman.' 

'  You  're  a  nobleman,  you  're  a  man  of  honour, 
so  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  fight  with  me.' 

'  Vassily  Ivanovitch  ! ' 

'You  are  frightened,  I  think,  Mr.  Rogatchov.' 

'  I  'm  not  in  the  least  frightened,  Vassily 
Ivanovitch.  You  thought  you  would  frighten 
me,  Vassily  Ivanovitch.  I  '11  scare  him,  you 
thought,  he's  a  coward,  and  he'll  agree  to  any- 
thing directly.  .  .  No,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  I  am 
a  nobleman  as  much  as  you  are,  though  I  've 
not  had  city  breeding,  and  you  won't  succeed 
in  frightening  me  into  anything,  excuse  me.' 

'  Very  good,'  retorted  Vassily  ;  '  where  is  your 
sword  then  ? ' 

'  Eroshka  ! '  shouted  Pavel  Afanasievitch.  A 
servant  came  in. 

'  Get  me  the  sword — there — you  know,  in  the 
loft  .  .  .  make  haste.  .  .  .' 

Eroshka  went  out.  Pavel  Afanasievitch  sud- 
denly became  exceedingly  pale,  hurriedly  took 
off  his  dressing-gown,  put  on  a  reddish  coat 
with  big  paste  buttons  .  .  .  twisted  a  cravat 
round  his  neck  .  .  .  Vassily  looked  at  him,  and 
twiddled  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

•  Well,  are  we  to  fight  then,  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch ? ' 

'  Let 's  fight,  if  we  must  fight,'  replied  Roga- 
tchov, and  hurriedly  buttoned  up  his  shirt. 
297 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

*  Ay,  Pavel  Afanasievitch,  you  take  my 
advice,  marry  her  .  .  ,  what  is  it  to  you  .  .  . 
And  believe  me,  I  '11  .  .  .' 

*  No,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,'  Rogatchov  inter- 
rupted him.  'You'll  kill  me  or  maim  me,  I 
know,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  lose  my  honour  ; 
if  I  'm  to  die  then  I  must  die.' 

Eroshka  came  in,  and  trembling,  gave  Roga- 
tchov a  wretched  old  sword  in  a  torn  leather 
scabbard.  In  those  days  all  noblemen  wore 
swords  with  powder,  but  in  the  steppes  they 
only  put  on  powder  twice  a  year.  Eroshka 
moved  away  to  the  door  and  burst  out  crying. 
Pavel  Afanasievitch  pushed  him  out  of  the 
room. 

'  But,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,'  he  observed  with 
some  embarrassment, '  I  can't  fight  with  you  on 
the  spot:  allow  me  to  put  off  our  duel  till  to- 
morrow. My  father  is  not  at  home,  and  it  would 
be  as  well  for  me  to  put  my  affairs  in  order  to 
— to  be  ready  for  anything.' 

'  I  see  you  're  beginning  to  feel  frightened 
again,  sir.' 

'  No,  no,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  ;  but  consider 
yourself  .  .  .' 

'  Listen  ! '  shouted  Lutchinov,  '  you  drive  me 
out  of  patience.  .  .  .  Either  give  me  your  word 
to  marry  her  at  once,  or  fight  .  .  .  or  I  '11 
thrash  you  with  my  cane  like  a  coward, — do 
you  understand  ? ' 

298 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

'  Come  into  the  garden/  Rogatchov  answered 
througli  his  teeth. 

But  all  at  once  the  door  opened,  and  the  old 
nurse,  Efimovna,  utterly  distracted,  broke  into 
the  room,  fell  on  her  knees  before  Rogatchov, 
and  clasped  his  legs.  .  .  . 

•  My  little  master  ! '  she  wailed,  *  my  nursling 
.  .  .  what  is  it  you  are  about?  Will  you  be 
the  death  of  us  poor  wretches,  your  honour? 
Sure,  he'll  kill  you,  darling !  Only  you  say  the 
word,  you  say  the  word,  and  we'll  make  an 
end  of  him,  the  insolent  fellow.  .  .  Pavel 
Afanasievitch,  my  baby-boy,  for  the  love  of 
God!' 

A  number  of  pale,  excited  faces  showed  in 
the  door  .  .  .  there  was  even  the  red  beard  of 
the  village  elder  .  .  . 

'  Let  me  go,  Efimovna,  let  me  go  ! '  muttered 
Rogatchov. 

'  I  won't,  my  own,  I  won't.  What  are  you 
about,  sir,  what  arc  you  about?  What '11 
Afanasey  Lukitch  say?  Why,  he'll  drive  us 
all  out  of  the  light  of  day.  .  .  .  Why  are  you 
fellows  standing  still  ?  Take  the  uninvited 
guest  in  hand  and  show  him  out  of  the  house, 
so  that  not  a  trace  be  left  of  him.' 

'  Rogatchov  ! '  Vassily  Ivanovitch  shouted 
menacingly. 

'You  are  crazy,  Efimovna,  you  are  shaming 
me,  come,  come  .  .  .'  said  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 
299 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

'Go  away,  go  away,  in  God's  name,  and  you 
others,  off  with  you,  do  you  hear?  .  .  .' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  moved  swiftly  to  the  open 
window,  took  out  a  small  silver  whistle,  blew 
lightly  .  .  .  Bourcier  answered  from  close  by, 
Lutchinov  turned  at  once  to  Pavel  Afana- 
sievitch. 

'  What 's  to  be  the  end  of  this  farce  ? ' 

'Vassily  Ivanovitch,  I  will  come  to  you  to- 
morrow. What  can  I  do  with  this  crazy  old 
woman  ?  .  .  .' 

'Oh,  I  see  it's  no  good  wasting  words  on 
you,'  said  Vassily,  and  he  swiftly  raised  his 
cane  .  .  . 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  broke  loose,  pushed 
Efimovna  away,  snatched  up  the  sword,  and 
rushed  through  another  door  into  the  garden. 

Vassily  dashed  after  him.  They  ran  into  a 
wooden  summerhouse,  painted  cunningly  after 
the  Chinese  fashion,  shut  themselves  in,  and 
drew  their  swords.  Rogatchov  had  once  taken 
lessons  in  fencing,  but  now  he  was  scarcely 
capable  of  drawing  a  sword  properly.  The 
blades  crossed.  Vassily  was  obviously  playing 
with  Rogatchov's  sword.  Pavel  Afanasievitch 
was  breathless  and  pale,  and  gazed  in  conster- 
nation into  Lutchinov's  face. 

Meanwhile,  screams  were  heard  in  the  garden ; 
a  crowd  of  people  were  running  to  the  summer- 
house.  Suddenly  Rogatchov  heard  the  heart- 
300 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

rending  wail  of  old  age  ...  he  recognised  the 
voice  of  his  father.  Afanasey  Lukitch,  bare- 
headed, with  dishevelled  hair,  was  running 
in  front  of  them  all,  frantically  waving  his 
hands.  .  .  . 

With  a  violent  and  unexpected  turn  of  the 
blade  Vassily  sent  the  sword  flying  out  of 
Pavel  Afanasievitch's  hand. 

'  Marry  her,  my  boy,'  he  said  to  him  :  *  give 
over  this  foolery  ! ' 

'  I  won't  marry  her,'  whispered  Rogatchov, 
and  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  shook  all  over. 

Afanasey  Lukitch  began  banging  at  the  door 
of  the  summerhouse. 

'You  won't?'  shouted  Vassily. 

Rogatchov  shook  his  head. 

'  Well,  damn  you,  then  ! ' 

Poor  Pavel  Afanasievitch  fell  dead  :  Lutchi- 
nov's  sword  stabbed  him  to  the  heart  .  .  .  The 
door  gave  way  ;  old  Rogatchov  burst  into  the 
summerhouse,  but  Vassily  had  already  jumped 
out  of  window  .  .  . 

Two  hours  later  he  went  into  Olga  Ivanovna's 
room  .  .  .  She  rushed  in  terror  to  meet  him,  .  .  . 
He  bowed  to  her  in  silence  ;  took  out  his  sword 
and  pierced  Pavel  Afanasievitch's  portrait  in 
the  place  of  the  heart.  Olga  shrieked  and  fell 
unconscious  on  the  floor  .  .  .  Vassily  went 
in  to  Anna  Pavlovna.  He  found  her  in  the 
oratory,  '  Mother,'  said  he,  '  we  are  avenged.' 
301 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

The  poor  old  woman  shuddered  and  went  on 
praying. 

Within  a  week  Vassily  had  returned  to 
Petersburg,  and  two  years  later  he  came  back 
stricken  with  paralysis — tongue-tied.  He  found 
neither  Anna  Pavlovna  nor  Olga  living,  and 
soon  after  died  himself  in  the  arms  of  Yuditch, 
who  fed  him  like  a  child,  and  was  the  only 
one  who  could  understand  his  incoherent 
stuttering. 

1S46. 


302 


ENOUGH 

A  FRAGMENT  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK  OF  A 
DEAD   ARTIST 


II 


III 


*  Enough,'  I  said  to  myself  as  I  moved  with 
lagging  steps  over  the  steep  mountainside  down 
to  the  quiet  little  brook.  '  Enough,'  I  said 
again,  as  I  drank  in  the  resinous  fragrance  of 
the  pinewood,  strong  and  pungent  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  falling  evening.  '  Enough/  I  said  once 
303 


ENOUGH 

more,  as  I  sat  on  the  mossy  mound  above  the 
little  brook  and  gazed  into  its  dark,  lingering 
waters,  over  which  the  sturdy  reeds  thrust  up 
their  pale  green  blades.  .  .  .  '  Enough.' 

No  more  struggle,  no  more  strain,  time  to  draw 
in,  time  to  keep  firm  hold  of  the  head  and  to 
bid  the  heart  be  silent.  No  more  to  brood  over 
the  voluptuous  sweetness  of  vague,  seductive 
ecstasy,  no  more  to  run  after  each  fresh  form 
of  beauty,  no  more  to  hang  over  every  tremour 
of  her  delicate,  strong  wings. 

All  has  been  felt,  all  has  been  gone  through 
...  I  am  weary.  What  to  me  now  that  at 
this  moment,  larger,  fiercer  than  ever,  the 
sunset  floods  the  heavens  as  though  aflame 
with  some  triumphant  passion  ?  What  to  me 
that,  amid  the  soft  peace  and  glow  of  evening, 
suddenly,  two  paces  hence,  hidden  in  a  thick 
bush's  dewy  stillness,  a  nightingale  has  sung 
his  heart  out  in  notes  magical  as  though 
no  nightingale  had  been  on  earth  before  him, 
and  he  first  sang  the  first  song  of  first  love  ? 
All  this  was,  has  been,  has  been  again,  and  is 
a  thousand  times  repeated — and  to  think  that 
it  will  last  on  so  to  all  eternity — as  though 
decreed,  ordained — it  stirs  one's  wrath!  Yes 
.  ,  .  wrath  I 


304 


ENOUGH 


IV 


All,  I  am  grown  old !  Such  thoughts  would 
never  have  come  to  me  once — in  those  happy 
days  of  old,  when  I  too  was  aflame  like  the 
sunset  and  my  heart  sang  like  the  nightingale. 

There  is  no  hiding  it — everything  has  faded 
about  me,  all  life  has  paled.  The  light  that 
gives  life's  colours  depth  and  meaning — the 
light  that  comes  out  of  the  heart  of  man — 
is  dead  within  me.  .  .  .  No,  not  dead  yet — it 
feebly  smoulders  on,  giving  no  light,  no 
warmth. 

Once,  late  in  the  night  in  Moscow,  I  re- 
member I  went  up  to  the  grating  window  of  an 
old  church,  and  leaned  against  the  faulty  pane. 
It  was  dark  under  the  low  arched  roof — a  for- 
gotten lamp  shed  a  dull  red  light  upon  the 
ancient  picture  ;  dimly  could  be  discerned  the 
lips  only  of  the  sacred  face — stern  and  sorrow- 
ful. The  sullen  darkness  gathered  about  it, 
ready  it  seemed  to  crush  under  its  dead  weight 
the  feeble  ray  of  impotent  light.  .  .  .  Such 
now  in  my  heart  is  the  light ;  and  such  the 
darkness. 


305 


ENOUGH 


And  this  I  write  to  thee,  to  thee,  my  one 
never  forgotten  friend,  to  thee,  my  dear  com- 
panion, whom  I  have  left  for  ever,  but  shall 
not  cease  to  love  till  my  life's  end.  .  .  .  Alas ! 
thou  knowest  what  parted  us.  But  that  I  have 
no  wish  to  speak  of  now.  I  have  left  thee  .  .  . 
but  even  here,  in  these  wilds,  in  this  far-off 
exile,  I  am  all  filled  through  and  through  with 
thee  ;  as  of  old  I  am  in  thy  power,  as  of  old  I 
feel  the  sweet  burden  of  thy  hand  on  my  bent 
head  ! 

For  the  last  time  I  drag  myself  from  out  the 
grave  of  silence  in  which  I  am  lying  now.  I 
turn  a  brief  and  softened  gaze  on  all  my  past 
.  .  .  our  past.  .  .  .  No  hope  and  no  return  ; 
but  no  bitterness  is  in  my  heart  and  no  regret, 
and  clearer  than  the  blue  of  heaven,  purer 
than  the  first  snow  on  mountain  tops,  fair 
memories  rise  up  before  me  like  the  forms  of 
departed  gods.  .  .  .  They  come,  not  thronging 
in  crowds,  in  slow  procession  they  follow  one 
another  like  those  draped  Athenian  figures  we 
admired  so  much — dost  thou  remember  ? — in 
the  ancient  bas-reliefs  in  the  Vatican. 


3o6 


ENOUGH 


VI 


I  HAVE  spoken  of  the  light  that  comes  from 
the  heart  of  man,  and  sheds  brightness  on  all 
around  him  ...  I  long  to  talk  with  thee  of 
the  time  when  in  my  heart  too  that  light 
burned  bright  with  blessing  .  .  .  Listen  .  .  . 
and  I  will  fancy  thee  sitting  before  me,  gazing 
up  at  me  with  those  eyes — so  fond  yet  stern 
almost  in  their  intentness.  O  eyes,  never  to 
be  forgotten  !  On  whom  are  they  fastened 
now  ?  Who  folds  in  his  heart  thy  glance — that 
glance  that  seems  to  flow  from  depths  unknown 
even  as  mysterious  springs — like  ye,  both  clear 
and  dark — that  gush  out  into  some  narrow, 
deep  ravine  under  the  frowning  cliffs. . . .  Listen, 


VII 

It  was  at  the  end  of  March  before  Annuncia- 
tion, soon  after  I  had  seen  thee  for  the  first 
time  and^ — not  yet  dreaming  of  what  thou 
wouldst  be  to  me — already,  silently,  secretly, 
I  bore  thee  in  my  heart.  I  chanced  to  cross 
one  of  the  great  rivers  of  Russia.  The  ice  had 
not  yet  broken  up,  but  looked  swollen  and 
dark  ;  it  was  the  fourth  day  of  thaw.  The 
snow  was  melting  everywhere — steadily  but 
307 


ENOUGH 

slowly ;  there  was  the  running  of  water  on  all 
sides  ;  a  noiseless  wind  strayed  in  the  soft  air. 
Earth  and  sky  alike  were  steeped  in  one  un- 
varying milky  hue ;  there  was  not  fog  nor  was 
there  light ;  not  one  object  stood  out  clear  in 
the  general  whiteness,  everything  looked  both 
close  and  indistinct.  I  left  my  cart  far  behind 
and  walked  swiftly  over  the  ice  of  the  river, 
and  except  the  muffled  thud  of  my  own  steps 
heard  not  a  sound.  I  went  on  enfolded  on  all 
sides  by  the  first  breath,  the  first  thrill,  of  early 
spring  . . .  and  gradually  gaining  force  with  every 
step,  with  every  movement  forwards,  a  glad 
tremour  sprang  up  and  grew,  all  uncompre- 
hended  within  me  ...  it  drew  me  on,  it  hast- 
ened me,  and  so  strong  was  the  flood  of  gladness 
within  me,  that  I  stood  still  at  last  and  with 
questioning  eyes  looked  round  me,  as  I  would 
seek  some  outer  cause  of  my  mood  of  rapture. 
.  .  .  All  was  soft,  white,  slumbering,  but  I 
lifted  my  eyes ;  high  in  the  heavens  floated  a 
flock  of  birds  flying  back  to  us.  .  .  .  '  Spring ! 
welcome  spring  ! '  I  shouted  aloud  :  *  welcome, 
life  and  love  and  happiness ! '  And  at  that 
instance,  with  sweetly  troubling  shock,  sud- 
denly like  a  cactus  flower  thy  image  blossomed 
aflame  within  me,  blossomed  and  grew, 
bewilderingly  fair  and  radiant,  and  I  knew  that 
I  love  thee,  thee  only — that  I  am  all  filled  full 
of  thee.  .  .  . 

308 


ENOUGH 


VIII 


I  THINK  of  thee  .  .  .  and  many  other 
memories,  other  pictures  float  before  me  with 
thee  everywhere,  at  every  turn  of  my  life  I 
meet  thee.  Now  an  old  Russian  garden  rises 
up  before  me  on  the  slope  of  a  hillside,  lighted 
up  by  the  last  rays  of  the  summer  sun.  Behind 
the  silver  poplars  peeps  out  the  wooden  roof 
of  the  manor-house  with  a  thin  curl  of  reddish 
smoke  above  the  white  chimney,  and  in  the 
fence  a  little  gate  stands  just  ajar,  as  though 
some  one  had  drawn  it  to  with  faltering  hand  ; 
and  I  stand  and  wait  and  gaze  at  that  gate 
and  the  sand  of  the  garden  path — wonder  and 
rapture  in  my  heart.  All  that  I  behold  seems 
new  and  different ;  over  all  a  breath  of  some 
glad,  brooding  mystery,  and  already  I  catch 
the  swift  rustle  of  steps,  and  I  stand  intent 
and  alert  as  a  bird  with  wings  folded  ready  to 
take  flight  anew,  and  my  heart  burns  and 
shudders  in  joyous  dread  before  the  approach- 
ing, the  alighting  rapture.  .  .  . 


IX 

Then  I  see  an  ancient  cathedral  in  a  beautiful, 

far-off  land.     In  rows  kneel  the   close  packed 

309 


ENOUGH 

people  ;  a  breath  of  prayerful  chill,  of  some- 
thing grave  and  melancholy  is  wafted  from 
the  high,  bare  roof,  from  the  huge,  branching 
columns.  Thou  standest  at  my  side,  mute, 
apart,  as  though  knowing  me  not.  Each  fold 
of  thy  dark  cloak  hangs  motionless  as  carved  in 
stone.  Motionless,  too,  lie  the  bright  patches 
cast  by  the  stained  windows  at  thy  feet  on  the 
worn  flags.  And  lo,  violently  thrilling  the 
incense-clouded  air,  thrilling  us  within,  rolled 
out  the  mighty  flood  of  the  organ's  notes  .  .  . 
and  I  saw  thee  paler,  rigid — thy  glance  car- 
essed me,  glided  higher  and  rose  heavenwards 
— while  to  me  it  seemed  none  but  an  immortal 
soul  could  look  so,  with  such  eyes  .  .  . 


Another  picture  comes  back  to  me. 

No  old-world  temple  subdues  us  with  its 
stern  magnificence ;  the  low  walls  of  a  little 
snug  room  shut  us  off  from  the  whole  world. 
What  am  I  saying?  We  are  alone,  alone  in  the 
whole  world  ;  except  us  two  there  is  nothing 
living — outside  these  friendly  walls  darkness 
and  death  and  emptiness  ...  It  is  not  the  wind 
that  howls  without,  not  the  rain  streaming  in 
floods ;  without,  Chaos  wails  and  moans,  his 
sightless  eyes  are  weeping.  But  with  us 
310 


ENOUGH 

all  is  peaceful  and  light  and  warm  and 
welcoming ;  something  droll,  something  of 
childish  innocence,  like  a  butterfly— isn't  it 
so  ? — flutters  about  us.  We  nestle  close  to 
one  another,  we  lean  our  heads  tot^cther  and 
both  read  a  favourite  book.  I  feel  the  delicate 
vein  beating  in  thy  soft  forehead  ;  I  hear  that 
thou  livest,  thou  hearest  that  I  am  living,  thy 
smile  is  born  on  my  face  before  it  is  on  thine, 
thou  makest  mute  answer  to  my  mute  question, 
thy  thoughts,  my  thoughts  are  like  the  two 
wings  of  one  bird,  lost  in  the  infinite  blue  .  .  . 
the  last  barriers  have  fallen — and  so  soothed, 
so  deepened  is  our  love,  so  utterly  has  all 
apartness  vanished  that  we  have  no  need  for 
word  or  look  to  pass  between  us  .  .  .  Only  to 
breathe,  to  breathe  together  is  all  we  want,  to 
be  together  and  scarcely  to  be  conscious  that 
we  are  together  .  .  . 


XI 

Or  last  of  all,  there  comes  before  me  that 
bright  September  when  we  walked  through  the 
deserted,  still  flowering  garden  of  a  forsaken 
palace  on  the  bank  of  a  great  river — not 
Russian  —  under  the  soft  brilliance  of  the 
cloudless  sky.  Oh,  how  put  into  words  what 
we  felt !  The  endlessly  flowing  river,  the 
311 


ENOUnii 

solitude  and  peace  and  bliss,  and  a  kind  of 
voluptuous  melancholy,  and  the  thrill  of  rap- 
ture, the  unfamiliar  monotonous  town,  the 
autumn  cries  of  the  jackdaws  in  the  high  sun- 
lit treetops,  and  the  tender  words  and  smiles 
and  looks,  long,  soft,  piercing  to  the  very  in- 
most soul,  and  the  beauty,  beauty  in  our  lives, 
about  us,  on  all  sides — it  is  above  words.  Oh, 
the  bench  on  which  we  sat  in  silence  with  heads 
bowed  down  under  the  weight  of  feeling — I 
cannot  forget  it  till  the  hour  I  die !  How 
delicious  were  those  few  strangers  passing  us 
with  brief  greetings  and  kind  faces,  and  the 
great  quiet  boats  floating  by  (in  one — dost  thou 
remember? — stood  a  horse  pensively  gazing  at 
the  gliding  water),  the  baby  prattle  of  the  tiny 
ripples  by  the  bank,  and  the  very  bark  of  the 
distant  dogs  across  the  water,  the  very  shouts 
of  the  fat  officer  drilling  the  red-faced  recruits 
yonder,  with  outspread  arms  and  knees  crooked 
like  grasshoppers  !  .  ,  .  We  both  felt  that  better 
than  those  moments  nothing  in  the  world  had 
been  or  would  be  for  us,  that  all  else  .  .  .  But 
why  compare?  Enough  .  .  .  enough  .  .  .  Alas  ! 
yes :  enough. 

XII 

For  the  last  time  I  give  myself  up  to  those 

memories  and  bid  them  farewell  for  ever.     So 

312 


ENOUGH 

a  miser  gloating  over  his  hoard,  his  gold,  his 
bright  treasure,  covers  it  over  in  the  damp, 
grey  eaith  ;  so  the  wick  ot  a  smouldering  lamp 
flickers  up  in  a  last  bright  flare  and  sinks  into 
cold  ash.  The  wild  creature  has  peeped  out 
from  its  hole  for  the  last  time  at  the  velvet 
grass,  the  sweet  sun,  the  blue,  kindly  waters, 
and  has  huddled  back  into  the  depths,  curled 
up,  and  gone  to  sleep.  Will  he  have  glimpses 
even  in  sleep  of  the  sweet  sun  and  the  grass 
and  the  blue  kindly  water  ?  .  .  , 


XIII 

Sternly,  remorselessly,  fate  leads  each  of  us, 
and  only  at  the  first,  absorbed  in  details  of  all 
sorts,  in  trifles,  in  ourselves,  we  are  not  aware 
of  her  harsh  hand.  While  one  can  be  deceived 
and  has  no  shame  in  lying,  one  can  live  and 
there  is  no  shame  in  hoping.  Truth,  not  the 
full  truth,  of  that,  indeed,  we  cannot  speak,  but 
even  that  little  we  can  reach  locks  up  our  lips 
at  once,  ties  our  hands,  leads  us  to  'the  No.' 
Then  one  way  is  left  a  man  to  keep  his  feet, 
not  to  fall  to  pieces,  not  to  sink  into  the  mire  of 
self-forgetfulness  .  .  .  of  self-contempt, — calmly 
313 


ENOUGH 

to  turn  away  from  all,  to  say  '  enough  ! '  and 
folding  impotent  arms  upon  the  empty  breast, 
to  save  the  last,  the  sole  honour  he  can  attain 
to,  the  dignity  of  knowing  his  own  nothing- 
ness; that  dignity  at  which  Pascal  hints  when 
calling  man  a  thinking  reed  he  says  that  if 
the  whole  universe  crushed  him,  he,  that  reed, 
would  be  higher  than  the  universe,  because  he 
would  know  it  was  crushing  him,  and  it  would 
know  it  not.  A  poor  dignity !  A  sorry  con- 
solation !  Try  your  utmost  to  be  penetrated 
by  it,  to  have  faith  in  it,  you,  whoever  you  may 
be,  my  poor  brother,  and  there 's  no  refuting 
those  words  of  menace : 

'  Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury 
Signifying  nothing.' 

I  quoted  these  lines  from  Macbeth,  and  there 
came  back  to  my  mind  the  witches,  phantoms, 
apparitions  .  .  .  Alas !  no  ghosts,  no  fantastic, 
unearthly  powers  are  terrible ;  there  are  no 
terrors  in  the  Hoffmann  world,  in  whatever  form 
it  appears  .  .  .  What  is  terrible  is  that  there  is 
nothing  terrible,  that  the  very  essence  of  life  is 
petty,  uninteresting  and  degradingly  inane. 
Once  one  is  soaked  through  and  through  with 
that  knowledge,  once  one  has  tasted  of  that 
bitter,  no  honey  more  seems  sweet,  and  even 
314 


ENOUGH 

the  hi'fjjhest,  sweetest  bliss,  the  bliss  of  love, 
of  perfect  nearness,  of  complete  devotion — 
even  that  loses  all  its  magic  ;  all  its  dignity  is 
destroyed  by  its  own  pettiness,  its  brevity 
Yes  ;  a  man  loved,  glowed  with  passion,  mur- 
mured of  eternal  bliss,  of  undying  raptures, 
and  lo,  no  trace  is  left  of  the  very  worm  that 
devoured  the  last  relic  of  his  withered  tongue. 
So,  on  a  frosty  day  in  late  autumn,  when  all  is 
lifeless  and  dumb  in  the  bleached  grey  grass, 
on  the  bare  forest  edge,  if  the  sun  but  come 
out  for  an  instant  from  the  fog  and  turn  one 
steady  glance  on  the  frozen  earth,  at  once  the 
gnats  swarm  up  on  all  sides ;  they  sport  in  the 
warm  rays,  bustle,  flutter  up  and  down,  circle 
round  one  another  .  .  .  The  sun  is  hidden — 
the  gnats  fall  in  a  feeble  shower,  and  there  is 
the  end  of  their  momentary  life. 


XIV 

But  are  there  no  great  conceptions,  no 
great  words  of  consolation  :  patriotism,  right, 
freedom,  humanity,  art  ?  Yes ;  those  words 
there  are,  and  many  men  live  by  them  and  for 
them.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  if  Shake- 
speare could  be  born  again  he  would  have 
no  cause  to  retract  his  Hamlet,  his  Lear.  His 
searching  glance  would  discover  nothing  new 
31S 


ENOUGH 

in  human  life :  still  the  same  motley  picture — 
in  reality  so  little  complex — would  unroll  be- 
fore him  in  its  terrifyin<j  sameness.  The  same 
credulity  and  the  same  cruelty,  the  same  lust 
of  blood,  of  gold,  of  filth,  the  same  vulgar 
pleasures,  the  same  senseless  sufferinf^s  in  the 
name  ,  .  .  why,  in  the  name  of  the  very  same 
shams  that  Aristophanes  jeered  at  two  thousand 
years  ago,  the  same  coarse  snares  in  which  the 
many-headed  beast,  the  multitude,  is  caught  so 
easily,  the  same  workings  of  power,  the  same 
traditions  of  slavishness,  the  same  innateness 
of  falsehood — in  a  word,  the  same  busy  squirrel's 
turning  in  the  same  old  unchanged  wheel.  .  .  . 
Again  Shakespeare  would  set  Lear  repeating 
his  cruel :  '  None  doth  offend,'  which  in  other 
words  means  :  '  None  is  without  offence.' 
and  he  too  would  say  '  enough  ! '  he  too  would 
turn  away.  One  thing  perhaps,  may  be :  in 
contrast  to  the  gloomy  tragic  tyrant  Richard, 
the  great  poet's  ironic  genius  would  want  to 
paint  a  newer  type,  the  tyrant  of  to-day,  who  is 
almost  ready  to  believe  in  his  own  virtue,  and 
sleeps  well  of  nights,  or  finds  fault  with  too 
sumptuous  a  dinner  at  the  very  time  when  his 
half-crushed  victims  try  to  find  comfort  in 
picturing  him,  like  Richard,  haunted  by  the 
phantoms  of  those  he  has  ruined  .  .  . 

But  to  what  end  ? 

Why  prove — picking  out,  too,  and  weighing 
316 


ENOUGH 

words,  smoothing  and  rounding  off  phrases — 
why  prove  to  gnats  that  they  are  really  gnats? 

XV 

But  art?  .  .  .  beauty?  .  .  .  Yes,  these  are 
words  of  power;  they  are  more  powerful,  may 
be,  than  those  I  have  spoken  before.  Venus 
of  Milo  is,  may  be,  more  real  than  Roman  law 
or  the  principles  of  1789. ,  It  may  be  objected 
— how  many  times  has  the  retort  been  heard  ! — 
that  beauty  itself  is  relative,  that  by  the  Chinese 
it  is  conceived  as  quite  other  than  the  European's 
ideal.  .  .  .  But  it  is  not  the  relativity  of  art 
confounds  me ;  its  transitoriness,  again  its 
brevity,  its  dust  and  ashes — that  is  what  robs  me 
of  faith  and  courage.  Art  at  a  given  moment 
is  more  powerful,  may  be,  than  nature ;  for  in 
nature  is  no  symphony  of  Beethoven,  no  picture 
of  Ruysdael,  no  poem  of  Goethe,  and  only  dull- 
witted  pedants  or  disingenuous  chatterers  can 
yet  maintain  that  art  is  the  imitation  of  nature. 
But  at  the  end  of  all,  nature  is  inexorable;  she 
has  no  need  to  hurry,  and  sooner  or  later  she 
takes  her  own.  Unconsciously  and  inflexibly 
obedient  to  laws,  she  knows  not  art,  as  she  /• 
knows  not  freedom,  as  she  knows  not  good ; 
from  all  ages  moving,  from  all  ages  chang- 
ing, she  suffers  nothing  immortal,  nothing 
unchanging.  .  .  .  Man  is  her  child ;  but  man's 
317 


ENOUGH 

work — art — is  hostile  to  her,  just  because  it 
strives  to  be  unchanging  and  immortal.  Man 
is  the  child  of  nature;  but  she  is  the  universal 
mother,  and  she  has  no  preferences ;  all  that 
exists  in  her  lap  has  arisen  only  at  the  cost  of 
something  else,  and  must  in  its  time  yield  its 
place  to  something  else.  She  creates  destroy- 
ing, and  she  cares  not  whether  she  creates  or 
she  destroys — so  long  as  life  be  not  exter- 
minated, so  long  as  death  fall  not  short  of  his 
dues.  .  .  .  And  so  just  as  serenely  she  hides  in 
mould  the  god-like  shape  of  Phidias's  Zeus 
as  the  simplest  pebble,  and  gives  the  vile  worm 
for  food  the  priceless  verse  of  Sophokles.  Man- 
kind, 'tis  true,  jealously  aid  her  in  her  work  of 
slaughter ;  but  is  it  not  the  same  elemental 
force,  the  force  of  nature,  that  finds  vent  in  the 
fist  of  the  barbarian  recklessly  smashing  the 
radiant  brow  of  Apollo,  in  the  savage  yells  with 
which  he  casts  in  the  fire  the  picture  of  Apelles  ? 
How  are  we,  poor  folks,  poor  artists  to  be 
a  match  for  this  deaf,  dumb,  blind  force  who 
triumphs  not  even  in  her  conquests,  but  goes 
onward,  onward,  devouring  all  things?  How 
stand  against  those  coarse  and  mighty  waves, 
endlessly,  unceasingly  moving  upward  ?  How 
have  faith  in  the  value  and  dignity  of  the  fleet- 
ing images,  that  in  the  dark,  on  the  edge  of 
the  abyss,  we  shape  out  of  dust  for  an 
instant? 

318 


ENOUGH 


XVI 


All  this  is  true,  .  .  .  but  only  the  transient 
is  beautiful,  said  Schiller ;  and  nature  in  the 
incessant  play  of  her  rising,  vanishing  forms  is 
not  averse  to  beauty.  Does  not  she  carefully 
deck  the  most  fleeting  of  her  children — the 
petals  of  the  flowers,  the  wings  of  the  butter- 
fly— in  the  fairest  hues,  does  she  not  give 
them  the  most  exquisite  lines  ?  Beauty 
needs  not  to  li\e  for  ever  to  be  eternal — 
one  instant  is  enough  for  her.  Yes ;  that  may 
be  is  true — but  only  there  where  personality 
is  not,  where  man  is  not,  where  freedom  is 
not ;  the  butterfly's  wing  spoiled  appears  again 
and  again  for  a  thousand  years  as  the  same 
wing  of  the  same  butterfly;  there  sternly,  fairly, 
impersonally  necessity  completes  her  circle  .  .  . 
but  man  is  not  repeated  like  the  butterfly,  and 
the  work  of  his  hands,  his  art,  his  spontaneous 
creation  once  destroyed  is  lost  for  ever.  .  ,  . 
To  him  alone  is  it  vouchsafed  to  create  .  .  . 
but  strange  and  dreadful  it  is  to  pronounce: 
we  are  creators  ...  for  one  hour — as  there  was, 
in  the  tale,  a  caliph  for  an  hour.  In  this  is  our 
pre-eminence — and  our  curse ;  each  of  those 
'creators'  himself,  even  he  and  no  other,  even 
this  /  is,  as  it  were,  constructed  with  certain 
319 


ENOUGH 

aim,  on  lines  laid  down  beforehand  ;  each  more 
or  less  dimly  is  aware  of  his  significance,  is 
aware  that  he  is  innately  something  noble, 
eternal — and  lives,  and  must  live  in  the  moment 
and  for  the  moment.^  Sit  in  the  mud,  my 
friend,  and  aspire  to  the  skies  1  The  greatest 
among  us  are  just  those  who  more  deeply  than 
all  others  have  felt  this  rooted  contradiction  ; 
though  if  so,  it  may  be  asked,  can  such  words 
be  used  as  greatest,  great  ? 


XVII 

What  is  to  be  said  of  those  to  whom,  with  all 
goodwill,  one  cannot  apply  such  terms,  even  in 
the  sense  given  them  by  the  feeble  tongue  of  man? 
What  can  one  say  of  the  ordinary,  common, 
second-rate,  third-rate  toilers — whatsoever  they 
may  be — statesmen,  men  of  science,  artists — 
above  all,  artists?  How  conjure  them  to  shake 
off  their  numb  indolence,  their  weary  stupor, 
how  draw  them  back  to  the  field  of  battle,  if 
once  the  conception  has  stolen  into  their  brains 

*  One  cannot  help  recalling  here  Mephistopheles's  words  to 
Faust  :— 

•  Er  (Gott)  findet  sich  in  einem  ewgen  Glanz.e, 
Uns  hat  er  in  die  Finsterniss  gebiacht — 
Und  euch  taugt  einzig  Tag  und  Nacht.' 

—Author's  Note. 
320 


ENOUGH 

of  the  nullity  of  everything  human,  of  every 
sort  of  effort  that  sets  before  itself  a  higher  aim 
than  the  mere  winning  of  bread  ?  By  what 
crowns  can  they  be  lured  for  whom  laurels  and 
thorns  alike  are  valueless  ?  For  what  end  will 
they  again  face  the  laughter  of '  the  unfeeling 
crowd  '  or  '  the  judgment  of  the  fool ' — of  the  old 
fool  who  cannot  forgive  them  from  turning  away 
from  the  old  bogies — of  the  young  fool  who 
would  force  them  to  kneel  with  him,  to  grovel 
with  him  before  the  new,  lately  discovered 
idols?  Why  should  they  go  back  again  into 
that  jostling  crowd  of  phantoms,  to  that  market- 
place where  seller  and  buyer  cheat  each  other 
alike,  where  is  noise  and  clamour,  and  all  is 
paltry  and  worthless  ?  Why  '  with  impotence 
in  their  bones '  should  they  struggle  back  into 
that  world  where  the  peoples,  like  peasant 
boys  on  a  holiday,  are  tussling  in  the  mire 
for  handfuls  of  empty  nutshells,  or  gape  in 
open-mouthed  adoration  before  sorry  tinsel- 
decked  pictures,  into  that  world  where  only 
that  is  living  which  has  no  right  to  live,  and 
each,  stifling  self  with  his  own  shouting,  hurries 
feverishly  to  an  unknown,  uncomprehended 
goal  ?  No  .  .  .  no.  .  .  .  Enough  .  .  .  enough 
.  .  .  enough ! 


32 1 


ENOUGH 

XVIII 

.  .  .  Tlie  rest  is  silence.^      .  , 

•  •  '  t 

1864. 

*  English  in  the  original. — Translator's  Note. 


THE  END 


I'rintcd  liy  T.  aiui  A.  Cons  table,  Printers  to  His  Mnijesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO-i^      202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loons  may  be  renewed  by  colling  642-3405 

6-month  loons  moy  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation 

Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  mode  4  days  prior  to  due  dote 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

APR  2  0  1970 

lECLCilLIIGI/     1  78 

WT 1  6  1984 1 

b 

ffiCCiROEC13196 

4 

/ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORN' 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  40m,  3/78  BERKELEY,  CA  94. 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

iiiiiii 


CDMbfl3D3^t3 


^^^H  4G0;i2ii 

s 

^n 

i^io     fl 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^K- 

■ 

^^M^I^^^^^^^^^^^E'  * 

A 

^^^ 

fl 

LNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

I 


